Doomfall: The 49th Annual Hunger Games
by AdmiralBobbery
Summary: On the eve of the Second Quarter Quell, new Head Gamemaker Dolora Prewitt must decide what's worth more, her life, or the life of her son. As for the 24 tributes thrown into this year's unusual arena, nothing is as it seems. After unleashing the most powerful muttation to date, Dolora will have to face the consequences of her own design...The Juggernaut. SYOT CLOSED.
1. PrologueSYOT Forms

**A/N: I am so stoked two write my very own hunger games fan fiction! I have spent a lot of time reading other hunger games fics, primarily **_**Tears of Blood **_**and **_**A Grimm set of Games**_**, which have inspired me to write my very own fic. I have only dabbled in fan fiction writing, but have written many stories of my own, but only seen to my own eyes. My only previous ****complete ****fiction is **_**The Horror of Castle Bleck**_**, which got over 100 reviews for my first ever story! I am really hoping that this can take off, so please read and submit. It would literally mean the WORLD to me. But all of this talking it taxing on your hungry minds, so without further ado here is, **_**Doomfall: The 49**__**th**__**Annual Hunger Games**_

Dolora Prewitt stormed down the hall in a blinding fury. Her piercing violet eyes scanned the small corridor for any signs of obstruction, swiftly calculating the most logical route around the throng of disheveled technicians that swarmed the building. Dolora, not anticipating a young man with a sleep-deprived look stepping into her path, grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him into the wall. Crashing into the wall, the papers he had been holding with a lackadaisical grip flew from his hands and floated to the floor in a swirling mess. About to curse the one who had shoved him aside so rudely, he noticed the bouncing purple hair that swayed back and forth behind the woman's head.

"Good morning Miss Prewitt," he mumbled to himself.

Dolora swept into the Head Gamemaker's office, throwing the door open with an unprecedented vehemence for a woman of her petite frame. The man at the desk, busy with a mountain of paperwork, slowly swiveled in his chair at the sound of her staccato heels. He rubbed the bridge of his nose after removing the seemingly ancient bifocals that adorned his wizened face.

"What is the meaning of this?" Dolora questioned with a shriek.

"Whatever is the matter Miss Prewitt?" the elder man half-heartedly asked.

"It is just under two days before the reaping and Archibald Greaves has just informed me that we are still awaiting documentation of the arena? The Arena isn't documented?" Her voice was reaching a shout.

Before the old man could muster a response she added with a vitriolic flare, "Tell me Zios, do you expect the tributes to fight to the death in my backyard?"

Zios, his patience thinning, cast a look at his subordinate that mixed condescendence with sincerity.

"Miss Prewitt, as Head Gamemaker, it is my first and foremost responsibility to ensure that we have a game. Now, with this esoteric information in hand," he placed a sarcastic emphasis on the word esoteric, "Do you honestly expect me to not have a stunning arena in place for one of the most riveting Hunger Games in history? Do I appear to be a doltish child to you? You're accusations are most disconcerting to my opinion of your erudition. Now, I am rather busy with determining the precise placement of a genetically enhanced mutt that was specially made for this year's game."

He turned back to his desk and as Dolora opened her mouth to offer a rebuttal, Zios silenced her with a wave of his withered hand.

"Good day Miss Prewitt," he dully advised.

Turning on her heels in disgust with Zios' administration Dolora wheeled herself back out into the hallway, smashing into a rather plump man with delicate strands of mossy green hair whose complexion was a rather sickly green. His face was delicately tattooed with silver strands of lace and his eye lashes were plumped out and dyed an extravagant shade of chartreuse.

"Dolora!" The plump man squealed like an obnoxious piglet.

"Good morning Korran," Dolora replied with the same dull tone of superiority that Zios had blessed her with.

"You sound enthused to be here, liven up, the games are soon and I'm dying to watch the reapings," Korran placed a sickening but enthralled emphasis on the word dying.

"Zios is just so secretive with his methods; I wish he would just let us all know what he's thinking throughout all of this planning. I have some ideas that I would just kill for him to listen to!"

"Well, there will be enough killing go around soon Dolora," Korran assured her soothingly.

Dolora and Korran walked and talked together until they reached the conference room a few doors down. With an exasperated sigh, Dolora heaved open the door and sauntered over to her seat, next to a striking woman with a darker complexion and a shiny wave of jet black hair. The man to her right possessed tattoos all up and down his arms, representing his favorite moments from hunger games history.

It was sickening to Dolora.

In truth, Dolora Prewitt despised every aspect of the Hunger Games. It's not that she hated the capitol, she just didn't enjoy the idea of twenty four helpless teenagers killing one another in order to reclaim the lives that were mercilessly whisked out from underneath them. However, the job paid the bills, it paid them handsomely. Dolora held a position that was envied by many people in the capitol.

She used to work in the design department of the capitol, tattooing various citizens and capitol workers for a living. Her husband was the one who worked for the capitol, but he finally gave in to his longtime sickness that had been plaguing him. Thestus Prewitt was a delicate man, regal in his posture and fragile in his being. His death did not affect Dolora in the sense that would affect most widows. She marched into the games department and declared to work his job, even if it meant doing something she loathed to do.

Dolora emerged from her memories as a man dressed in all white entered the room. His raiment a blinding white, Archibald Greaves was adorned in a white suit, vest, tie, slacks, shoes, moustache, beard, eyebrows, hair, pocket watch and cane. Carefully depositing himself in the seat next to the head of the table, Greaves removed a white lace handkerchief and polished the frames of his spectacles, complete with white trimming. With a resonant cough and a shift of his posture, Greaves bowed his head in obeisance as Zios Dragoon entered the room.

The head Gamemaker, Zios was an unforgiving and chilling man. He kept all of the plans to himself, in fear that his lackeys would credit them as their own and steal his macabre show. Zios' father was the head Gamemaker before him, and his grandfather before that. The Dragoon family kept a prominent and arcane name in the capitol.

Slamming a stack of papers on the table in a manner uncouth to his taciturn nature, Zios scanned the room with piercing gray eyes. Performing a dull tap on the top of the papers, Zios cleared his throat before addressing his fellow Gamemakers.

"Here, are the plans for the arena of this year's Hunger Games," Zios breathed with a haughty air.

He eyed Dolora with an acidic glare and spoke again, "They were…requested."

The aforementioned beautiful woman sitting next to Dolora piped up, but her voice came out like a fisherman testing the ice on a frozen bay.

"Thank you, sir," she almost inaudibly said.

"Yes, Meta here was wondering when would be able to reach a final decision on the layout for the years games, and well we all know you love keeping your thoughts from us so we began to grow a bit…restless so to speak. But here they are, and we can come to a consensus at last," Greaves circumnavigated the thought of most of the gamemakers.

"I'm so glad," was Zios' only reply.

They began hashing out the fine details of the podiums, to the gong, to the cannons and most importantly, the geographical features. Most of them believed that Zios' had conceptualized the most breathtaking and yet equally challenging arena ever.

Taking a vote as whether to deny or approve Zios' plans, all but one hand voted in favor.

"Dolora dear, what's wrong with the arena?" Greaves questioned while Zios massaged his temples in frustration.

Before she could answer, Zios slammed his curled fist on the table. It shocked the gamemakers and Meta let out a frightened squeal.

"It's perfect!" Zios assuredly proclaimed.

"There is a flaw," Dolora spoke with certainty.

"Enlighten me," Zios instructed.

"Do you remember the _Juggernaut_ Zios?" Dolora questioned.

A sly smile crept upon his face and a wicked gleam danced in his shrinking pupils.

"A raise for the beautiful and resourceful Miss Dolora Prewitt," Zios lathered his encomium with praise.

Chiding herself for it on the inside, Dolora thought of her young son, Matthew. He needs me, she thought. Matthew had contracted the same sickness as his late father, and Dolora needed to secure enough money to make sure there was a cure. Wishing deep down she had never spoke, Dolora begged for forgiveness in her mind.

This was sure to be the most horrifying Hunger Games yet.

**The Arena has been voted through and Zios will implement some horrifyingly vague monstrosity known as The Juggernaut. However, the games cannot commence without tributes, so here are the forms! Please PM me directly with all of the below information and if more than one tribute comes in for the same slot, then I will executively decide. Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor!**

**Form for Submitting Your Own Tribute, PM Exactly as follows.**

**Name:**

**Gender:**

**Age:**

**District:**

**Height:**

**Weight:**

**Eye Color:**

**Hair Color:**

**Specialty: **

**Favorite Weapon (optional, depending on the type of person):**

**Family Members:**

**Token:**

**Occupation (if any):**

**Relationship Status:**

**Family Status(poor, middle class, upper):**

**Are Any Family Members Past Victors? If so whom:**

**Hobby:**

**Friends (if any, if there are some, limit them to about a close knit group of two or three good friends):**

**That's all! I know it's a lot but I want these tributes to be specifically tailored to what you want them to be, so please submit! It would really be awesome! If there is any additional information you wish for me to know about your tribute, then please include it with the form but keep it brief.**

**And please check my profile to make sure the slot you want for you tribute is not already taken! I will update those as frequently as possible so please pay attention to those windows! **

**Thank You!**


	2. District One Reapings- Silver and Gold

**A/N: I must say, I am extremely excited to begin this process. I cannot believe that I got submissions and I am thankful to those who submitted. However, there are still quite a few spots. Upon writing this, both tributes from three are available, the D5 male, the D6 female, both from seven, the D8 female, the D9 female, and both from twelve. If I could get these filled up, that would be amazing. And now I bring to you, the first reaping of the forty-ninth hunger games!**

* * *

**Avery Reid**

**District One- Male**

**Courtesy of IceVeinsVillain**

* * *

I focus my eyes on the unfamiliar surroundings, the gold-painted walls and the lacey trimmings around the picture frames. I don't know why I'm here, but I know this isn't my private suite. Then the thought dawns on me suddenly, and I groan as I rise from the silken bed sheets, letting them fall to the floor. I don't bother to pick them up.

I only come home for two specific reasons; the first is my birthday because in reality, as much as I'm adored by the capitol, I don't have many friends. The only other reason is for reaping days, which I will be rid of after today considering I'm eighteen.

It's not that I don't like my family, but my business prevents me from coming home a lot. I work as a model for cosmetic and swimwear advertisements in the captiol which is obvious due to my chiseled face and perfect washboard abs. I mean, you can legitimately wash clothes on them. Not that I let anyone touch me.

Sluggishly treading down the stairs, I scan the dining room with my deep violet eyes. I had them genetically altered by the capitol and not to brag, but it sort of started a trend. My eyes use to be a brilliant blue, but I altered them to give myself a little reminder of my ties wherever my modeling takes me. The design was emulated by many of the capitol's citizens and purple eyes pepper the irises of many. They simply adore me.

Depositing myself in an ornately carved wooden chair, I dig my muscular thighs into the white cushion, getting as comfortable as one can in such an ancient seat. My mother glides into the room, my father is missing. She sits down at the table, diagonal from where I'm sitting and brushes her hand against mine.

"Good Morning Avery," she coos.

"Morning," is all I grace her with.

My mother, Cecilia Reid was once a stylist for the capitol. Being the only one with beauty experience in the family, my mother and I share a bond that I don't share with anyone else. It might be lame to say, but I see her as not just a mother but a friend. However, I reiterate once a stylist. My mother got wrapped up in a scandalous affair with one of the hunky career tributes and retired before things got ugly. No one resents my mom however, because the affair was so long that no one really cares. She works as my manager; I don't let anyone else advise me on anything. So you could say it's not just a homecoming for me, but for my mother as well.

"Where's dad?" I ask between mouthfuls of egg and bacon she had prepared.

"Training," was her stoic reply.

"With Alexis?" I half questioned half assumed.

"With Alexis," she confirmed.

My younger sister Alexis is two years younger than me, but don't let that fool you. She's training to be in the Hunger Games, which I find stupid because who wants to be in the Hunger Games? Sure I train often in case I'm reaped, and I'm decent with a sword, but I mean seriously, it's not like anyone actually wants to go into that murder show. Except for my sister, who in two years is planning on taking the arena by storm.

"The reaping is at ten," my mother informs me as she lays the dishes out for the help to take care. She brushes my shoulder lovingly, prickling my skin with her long turquoise nails. I'm not wearing a shirt, I never do. When I have to put a shirt on it's normally something button up that I can leave open to expose my abdominals. They're just that good looking.

After breakfast I trudge back up the stairs and look at the clock. It reads 8:00, so I slip out of the sweatpants I had on and into my training shorts, the loose black material feeling wonderful on my tanned skin. Taking the stairs down past the ground floor and into the basement I arrive at my personal training room.

Striding over to my two custom made swords from the capitol; I pick them up with precautious care. Extremely light, the grooves on the hilt conform to my flawless hand and I marvel at the beauty for a few mere moments.

I press the timer resting on the shelf above the sword rack and dash for the first target, precisely stabbing it through the calf and parrying around the side for a finishing blow the back. I continue my parry after the leap and roll over to the next target, sinking my left sword into its chest and throwing my right sword through the head of third. Smashing my foot against the dummy and removing the sword with ease from its spongy head as it crashes to the ground, I leap over to the fourth and fifth dummy, hacking them to pieces with a few well-placed blows to the sides. Then next part was the one I always find difficult in my routine.

Preparing myself for the lunge, I brace my calves and leap. Sailing over the body of the fourth dummy I claw my way onto the back of the sixth dummy, which is standing on a raised platform. I nail the jump and swiftly slice the throat of the dummy open. Slamming my hand down on the red button next to the "dead" dummy, a time in bright red numbers pops up by the sword rack. 0:00:22

Shocked and ecstatic I smile as I wipe the stuffing from the blade of my sword. My best time, and on the day of the reaping, how coincidental. As I run through the routine for another countless time, I hear footsteps resonating from the stairs.

"Nice muscles hotshot," I hear Alexis taunt from the stairs.

"Don't you just wish you had them," I smirk, pissing her off.

"Mom wants you showered and dressed, we're leaving in fifteen."

"Aye-Aye captain," I salute to her anger.

Obviously ticked, Alexis stomps back up the stairs and I place my swords back on the rack with a victorious smile. Following her up the stairs, I make my way to the sumptuous bathroom, the floor tiles embellished with flecks of gold. Although I'm not here much, I always admire the bathroom; I've never been in a nicer shower. Stripping down out of my training shorts, I enter the shower and let the steaming water splash over my skin and permeate my body. Lathering my defined muscles and abs with soap, I rinse myself clean and let the water trickle down my chest. I'm just so damn sexy.

I come across a laid out pair of ragged jeans and a red button-up. Not buttoning it up, I leave my body exposed. The capitol loves me and I already have my own fan base. I'm not even sure my name is in the reaping bowl. Pulling on the faded jeans and slipping on my fraying flip-fops, I look like a stud. The girls will be all over me at the reaping.

* * *

I let Alexis and my father, Geoffrey go ahead. My dad is one of the head trainers of District 1, but that doesn't give me any advantage. I prefer to work with my mom, discussing my next shoot and what shots for the magazines I prefer. Alexis sticks her tongue out at me as I meet my mom in the foyer, fitting for her less than appealing face. Alexis wasn't as fortunate as me in the beauty department, which left her to a life of determined training. What's the point?

Reaching the district square for the reaping, there aren't even any Peacekeepers. They're mostly deployed to the other districts today, district one never causes a fuss over the Hunger Games, they love it here.

I loosen my muscles and mill about in the eighteen-year old section. I see one of my only friends in the district, Ross Hardbaugh come up to me. Ross is about my height and a fellow model. We met on a shoot for the most attractive men in the district. I was first place. Although district one is the capitol, Ross and I live in apartments in the heart of the capitol, the center of attraction and the high life.

"I wonder which one of us is going to get reaped," Ross mused.

"Bro, I don't even know if names like ours are in the bowl," I assure him.

He doesn't look too convinced.

Our district escort, Tatyana Gibbs saunters her way across the stage. Her garish outfit is composed of a lavender blouse with a wisteria cloak that shrouds her arms and shoulders in a wave of unsightliness. The cloak stops at her waist, where a large belt buckle covers half of her stomach. Thin stockings the color purple adorn her skinny legs and her stiletto heels are a warped shade of fuchsia. She looks like an idiot, like most of the capitol citizens.

She takes her seat and attentively watches our mayor, Mayor Gamble, read his boring speech about the revolution and the Dark Days. I'm busy shooting my famously devilish grin at this cute girl across the way. She blushes and I wink. Her heart melts.

By the time my flirting is over, Tatyana sashays over to the podium, her ugly cloak swinging back and forth, bathing her wrists in that horrid shade of purple.

"Happy Hunger Games tributes!" she calls out as if this were some celebration. It's not that I despise the Hunger Games; I just don't revel in them like the rest of the capitol. Sure, my attractive features have allowed me to manipulate others and I'm skilled with my swords so I could take this thing on, but I'm not going to dance in the streets like the rest of these kids if I get reaped.

"The time has come for us to select a boy and a girl to represent the fabulous district one in the forty-ninth hunger games," she smiles brightly at the crowd expecting applause or something she's not receiving. Resuming with a disappointed expression she snaps, "Ladies first."

Her noisy heels click all the way over to the girl's bowl, and the staccato torture on my ears paints a pleased look on her face. Waving her hand over the bowl for a moment and then diving down into the thousands of slips of paper, she fishes out one single piece of white paper and raises it to her lips. Carefully removing the seal on the end, she straightens it out in the air before reading it.

"Jemima Fitch!" she cries with overdone enthusiasm.

I don't know who that is, so I don't care. I watch as the frightened girl makes her way up the stage, Tatyana walks her over to her left side and smiles. The girl looks absolutely horrified but her attempts at fake confidence are easily noticeable.

"For the boys," Tatyana flashes another annoying smile.

Growing bored of the reaping I think of how I won't have to spend another day standing in this square after today. I'm eighteen, free after this. I can go back to my apartment with Ross and live the successful and envied life of a model. The breeze flaps open my shirt, and my muscles are exposed. I'm sure the cameras of the capitol are scanning the terrified faces of the crowd and I want them to see my body.

I have virtually no chance of being reaped, I find myself thinking in assurance. The tiniest dash of fear has found its way into my mind as Tatyana unfolds the slip of paper. I look at Ross and he stares at me dumbfounded, taking a few steps back as grief clouds his black eyes. I have no idea what he is freaking out over, until Tatyana reads the name for a second time.

"Avery Reid."

* * *

That's when it starts; the crowd must have been shocked too. Shrieks rise up from the crowd like sirens. They are horrified by the calling of my name. I can hear a girl somewhere shout "I volunteer!" Everyone's eyes are on me, but I can only think of one thing.

That's my name.

My body refuses to move and with the help of some of the few remaining peacekeepers, I find myself up on the stage, the sun shining down on my whitish blonde hair giving it the most splendid appearance in this horrific circumstance. That's when it hits me.

I am going into the games.

Tatyana forces me to shake Jemima's hand, but I'm secretly pleading someone will volunteer. She looks into my eyes with the same disturbed look that I'm sure fill mine. But it's not the fear she's noticing, it's the purple. My unheard pleas continue, but it's too late, and Tatyana has already announced the official tributes of district one. My name rolls off of her tongue like an arrow to the heart, my life as a model, my life as a beloved citizen of the capitol is over.

I attempt to appear fearless, but my worry shines through. My clammy hand slides out of Jemima's and we are wheeled into the Justice Building. My open shirt sags around my shoulders and my perfect appearance begins to diminish. My armpits are sweating profusely and I fumble for the walls as I'm lead into my small holding room.

The door slams shut definitively.

It opens after a few moments of silence and my family embraces me. My mother is crying and my father is patting me on the back, telling me that I have a good shot, I'm strong, I'm manipulative, I'll get a ton of sponsors.

My confidence builds and deters as I lay my eyes on Alexis. She was the one who wanted to be in these games so bad, she should be the one in here, not me. My hatred boils in my throat and I'm about to make some snarky remark when Alexis puts something in my hand.

Two gold earrings, given to me by my grandfather on his deathbed. I never wore them, but kept them in my room. I had forgotten about them in the whirlwind of my career, and am actually grateful for Alexis for once in my life.

"I thought these would let you know, your family is still here," she blurts out, her words laced with emotional pain.

"Thanks," I manage to say as I fit both earrings into my right ear. They dangle for a moment and then stop swaying, coming to an almost serene halt next to my head. Alexis hugs me, tightly, and I hug her back.

"You can win this," she speaks with certainty.

"Alexis…" I begin but she cuts me off.

"Don't you say it, don't you tell me there are twenty-four and only one comes out, you can win this," she reaffirms her earlier statement.

I kiss her cheek and give one last kiss to my mother, and she whispers in my ear,

"Get to the swords, get to the swords and your gold."

As she is carted out by the few peacekeepers left in district one today, a plan is already formulating in my brain.

"Get to the swords and your gold."

I, Avery Field, the golden boy of district one, can win this game.

* * *

**Jemima Fitch**

**District One- Female**

**Courtesy of Emmeline C. Thornebrooke**

* * *

My silent footsteps disturb nothing as I cross over to the plain white shade and pull it back, stealing a glance out at the massive crowd congregating in the square. Today is the day of the reaping, a day I absolutely detest with every fiber in my being. I've learned the history, I know the rebellion, but this form of punishment is sadistic and twisted. What gets me even more is the wild glee that fills the capitol's heart at the time of the games.

My father tells me I should have been somewhere like District Eleven or Ten, with the livestock and the farmers. My love of humanity is unappreciated her in one, especially by my parents. Georgia and Thomas Fitch are peacekeepers, and decry me every chance they get.

No condolences or hugs when I stumble into the foyer in the afternoons, tears streaming down my pallid face. My father only shakes his head and my mother flinches in repulsion. I am not the bloodthirsty fiend they had wished for.

I am almost dreading the days to come as much as the reaping. My parents throw the most expensive and boisterous "Hunger Games Gala" known to the twelve districts. I lock myself in my room for a good portion of those days; I can't believe their fascination with the broadcasted murder of twenty-three innocent teenagers. Then again, this is the capitol.

The sun's rays flood into my room and I quickly vanquish their presence by covering the window again. My mother has laid out a simple but chic grey dress for me and I slip it on after returning from my shower. Nearly sprinting down the stairs, I don't even acknowledge my parents as I dart out the door into the sunshine I had sought to exterminate only fifteen minutes ago.

I'm walking away from the square, not towards it. I'll get there eventually, but for now I slip in between the closely pressed buildings and into an alley. There's a boy, tall and well-built, leaning up against the side of the brick exterior. His jaw is working up and down, ferociously chewing on his gum like some sort of animal.

I stride up to him and jam my fingers in his mouth, ripping out the gum and throwing it on the ground.

"Hey! I was enjoying that!" he protests.

"I hate the way you chew," I lovingly chide and wrap my arms around his shoulder, planting a firm kiss on his lips. His anger subsides into dull warmth and he traces his fingers along the too well-known patterns of my spine. Playing with the zipper on my dress, I playfully bat his hand away and laugh. He twirls his fingers in my black wavy hair and he whispers sweet-nothings in my ear.

"I love you Hunter," I say.

"I love you too," he smiles.

Hands laced together, we emerge from the reclusive darkness and come face to my face with my only friend in the district besides Hunter, but he doesn't really count since he's my boyfriend.

"Hey lovebirds," Issie taunts waggishly.

Isis Taylor is my best friend; we've been inseparable since we were little. While my parents may not like me very much, Issie's parents can't get enough of me. I find myself sleeping there more often than at my actual house, but my parents "don't approve of that hippie and his wife."

Before Hunter and I started dating, the three of us we're best friends. Issie didn't mind us hooking up though; at least she doesn't show it.

"Scared for today?" she asks with a laugh, Issie doesn't know fear.

"I've only got one more time after this," Hunter acknowledges the fact that he's a year older than me at seventeen.

"What about you Mi?" Issie probes.

Issie started calling me Mi as soon as she learned my name.

"It's too much to say," Issie pouts in my memory as she gives me her explanation for refusing to call me Jemima. I absolutely hate it, believing I should go by what I was given at birth, but she begs to differ.

"I'm a little nervous," I lie.

Hunter wraps his fingers around mine tighter and his strength pours over into mine. Looking into his eyes, he kisses me and Issie makes a vomiting sound.

We pull up at the square and I kiss Hunter goodbye as he goes to stand in the seventeen year old section. Issie and I shuffle into the sixteen-year old section and come across two girls fighting about something dumb, fashion.

Clovis Blakeman and Sharyce "Dimples" Melldon are arguing about who looks better. The snobbish teens have been chummy ever since they learned they both wear the same nail polish. It makes me want to barf. However, I can't stand conflict, and I always strive to make it my effort to eradicate it whenever I see it.

Issie sees my worried glance towards Clovis and Sharyce and she groans,

"Come on Mi, they're not worth it."

"Just hold on," I plead.

Making my way towards the girls I place a hand on Clovis' shoulder and she barks, "Oh, it's you."

"Guess who it is Sharyce? Jemima Bitch." Clovis snaps.

I refuse to acknowledge those who attend the training academy, and since my only focus is school and the times I share with Hunter and Issie, everyone else is loath to speak to me. The profane nickname started when I made some witty remark to this girl outside the training about how dumb it is to want to be in the Hunger Games.

"Why are you two arguing, you guys are friends," I try to resolve the doltish dispute.

"Go away Jemima!" Clovis yells.

"Yeah, freak!" Sharyce adds.

A hurt look clouds my helping attitude and Issie drags me away from the two girls.

"You do it to yourself," she reminds me.

My emotions are rising inside of me and I can feel tears. I just want people to not think I'm sort of freak just because I hate violence. I get made fun of for all my quirks, from my renowned disposition as a mediator to my dietary habits, which is veganism.

I block out the words of the mayor and Tatyana Gibbs, the district escort and instead focus on what Clovis and Tatyana had said to me. I just wanted to help.

"Ladies first," Tatyana's shrill voice interrupts my thoughts and I resurface back to the world of the reaping.

Digging her thin fingers into the wide glass bowl, Tatyana's hideous cloak envelops the opening at the top. Her ghost-white makeup is applied by the pound and her oversized eyelashes bat as she reads the name on the paper she has just read aloud.

"Jemima Fitch!"

* * *

My heart stops, it can't be me, me of all people. The only one, who refuses to train, denies all possibilities of participating in this ghastly event. I, Jemima Fitch, the skinny vegan crybaby from district one with the parents who despise her and the peers who hate her. Tatyana just signed my death warrant in blood.

Issie screams as I make my way to the stage, the girls making room for the one they had deprecated for so long. Tatyana extends her long, wiry fingers and a smile is painted on her hideously modified face. I am revolted at the thought of her touching me, and as she aids me in my climb I look out at the crowd.

My mother, a blank expression on her borderline unmoved face.

My father, not a care in the world as his only daughter walks to her death.

Issie screaming in despair as her best friend ascends the terminal scaffold.

Hunter with tears in his eyes, gaze fixed on me, mouthing three words.

"I love you."

I try to mouth them back, but the overwhelming fear of what is to come engulfs me like flames, and I realize in that moment that I'm going to die in these games that I have always considered in an opposite universe than me.

Tatyana makes her way over the boys bowl as I stand there, nervous tremors coursing about my body. She dives her hand into the bowl in the same manner as she did mine and plucks out the next poor victim of this barbaric government.

"Avery Fields!" her voice rings out.

The name sounds vaguely familiar, and I rack my brain trying to think of where I've heard it.

When Tatyana calls out the name a second time, I realize where I know him from. His hair dances in the sunlight, turning it a near white and he tries to level his expression between fear and confidence. His shirt isn't even buttoned, but that's not a problem, because I could wash clothes on those abs. I can hear shrieks emit from the crowd as they grieve his reaping and some vapid girl volunteers for him. That would make me smile, but it doesn't considering my grim circumstances.

We shake hands, Avery and I, and his deep purple eyes lock onto mine.

He's gorgeous, but I shake that thought from my head and think of Hunter instead.

The peacekeepers hustle us into the Justice Building and I'm thrown into a tiny holding chamber, awaiting my family and friends to come offer their final goodbyes.

* * *

Issie and Hunter pour into the room in a wave of grief; Issie wraps her arms around me. Hunter kisses my lips delicately and moans,

"God, Jemima."

"I'm okay," I find myself lying to him.

"No Jemima, you're not, you've never held a weapon, and you have next to no social…"

"You think I don't know that!" I shout.

The games have already changed me, in a matter of minutes. I refuse to let myself fall victim to this nefarious system, but Hunter's painful reminder of my zero percent chance to win this game cuts too deep and I find myself yelling. I never yell, it's against my nature.

"They've got you," he mumbles, "They've got you and I'm never going to get you back."

He smashes our lips together wildly in a fit of passions and leaves the room, I can hear his tears bounding of the walls of the hallway.

Issie meets my eyes and unclasps the heart shaped pendant that hangs around her neck. Carefully, she hooks it around my neck and fastens the clasp; the brilliant jewel brings warmth to the chill of the room.

"To protect you," she instructs as she pulls her hands away lovingly.

The peacekeeper knocks on the door and Issie leaves, but not before she looks back.

"I believe in you," she whispers.

The door closes and Tatyana comes to get me, ushering me into the archway that wraps around the platform of the train station. My eyes meet Avery's again, and the deep purple locks onto my gaze. He is menacing in his own beautiful sort of way and I can't stand to look at him any longer. We board the train and I don't look back at district one, the place I was never able to call home.

I am leaving, most probably to my death, but one thing is for certain.

I am free.

**The District One Reapings are over! PLEASE Send in tributes for both from 3, the boy from 5, a girl from 6, both tributes from 7, the district 8 female, the district nine girl and both from twelve. This would be amazing! Please favorite, follow and review. Keep this story alive because even though I write, it's the readers who make the story. Thank You All So Much for participating and thanks again to IceVeinsVillain and Emmeline C. Thornebrooke for our fantastic district one tributes!**


	3. District Two Reapings- An Oath of Blood

**A/N: Thank You to everyone who left reviews, started following, favorite and sent in tributes after the first reaping! It really is what makes authors want to keep writing, so please continue to R&R and submit and all that other wonderful stuff! As of writing this, the D3 male (reserved but I will take more than one application), the D5 male, both from 7, and the D8 female are in dire need of a name! So please submit and continue to read, but for now here is…the District Two Reaping!**

* * *

**Nero Lepidus**

**District Two- Male**

**Courtesy of BarkWoofBark**

* * *

"Mom! The Reaping is in two hours and Nero is still asleep!" I can hear Cassia's annoying voice floating up from downstairs. Groaning, I force myself to rise from the comfy down bed and stop in front of the mirror.

"Mom!" Cassia whines again.

"I'm up!" I shout loud enough to make some of the things in my room wobble with the uncertainty of whether or not they're going to crash to the ground. Steadying myself on the dresser, being a bit dizzy after having rising too fast, I gaze at my reflection.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those district two guys that thinks he's the hottest thing since who knows what, but I'm not ashamed to say that I'm pretty good looking. Everyone I know calls me by the pseudonym "Golden Boy" and I don't really mind it. My buttery blonde hair graces the tops of my eyebrows, and my eyes are borderline golden. I slip on a sleeveless grey shirt and make my way down the stairs, falling victim to the glaring eyes of my mother.

"Nero, it is Reaping Day! Cassia was up hours ago, she helped mend that dress I tore last week, and she even got training in Nero, training!"

My mother is more inclined to harbor her prejudices against me, because unlike Cassia, I'm not a suck-up to our parents, I could really care less. I have more important things to think about, and I've certainly trained enough to where a few extras hours before the reaping isn't going to make or break me in the arena.

"Give the boy a break Tulia," the booming voice of my father bounces into the room from the front door. "He's eighteen, last year eligible for the ol' reaping bowl isn't that right?"

My father Felix however, does not favor Cassia, but me. I help him out with the huge market he runs, and we're basically the same person. Like my father, I value pride and courage in others, and we're both pretty sharp with our minds. As opposed to my brute of a sister, I would much rather trick a bumbling tribute into a well-designed trap or sneak up behind them.

"Well Felix, it seems like you've got the boy's life all figured out, so I'll just let you keep the reins," My mother's words strike my father like a whip, he hates when my mother divides the parental roles.

After breakfast, Cassia decides to do some more training, but I have a different idea. As I cross the threshold from the hallway to my room, Diana, our giant golden retriever, is stretched out on my bed.

"Hey, Di!" I whisper in her ear.

Alarmed, she bolts out of the bed and onto the floor, scrambling around she barks out of surprise and looks up at me disapprovingly. Yeah, Diana can give you a disapproving look. Laughing, I lay back down on the bed and Diana hops up next to me. She lays her big shaggy head on my chest and lets out something between a whine and a sigh.

It's my last chance to be reaped, it's not like my parents are pressuring me into entering the games, and although I've trained my whole life, I'm not going to run up and shove others out of the way to volunteer.

I can hear Cassia coming up the stairs and she appears in my doorway, with a devilish grin on her face.

"I beat your time in the course downstairs," she says with triumph.

"Congratulations, I stopped using that thing last summer, I train at the complex now," I shoot back.

"Why are you so mean to me?" Cassia pouts sarcastically.

"Get over it," I say with indifference.

She turns to leave, and I notice it, like I do every time. Cassia shoots me a glance, laced with fury and hate. I don't know what I ever did to her, but she views me as a rival, not a brother. Sure, I don't love her to death, but I don't want to hold a knife to her throat. It puts me on edge most nights, not knowing if she'll creep in my room and slit my throat. But she doesn't, and I think she's saving her pent up wrath for another occasion, although I have no clue what that would be.

* * *

Patting Diana on the head goodbye, the four of us make our way to the middle of the district, where the reaping will take place. I don't even flinch when my blood sample is taken, and make my way over to the eighteen-year old section. Several girls giggle and look at me with hungry eyes, and I return their glances with a kiss and a wink. They burst into a fit of giggles and submerge themselves in another session of the gossip bowl.

I say hello to the boys in my section closest to me, I'm pretty much friendly with everyone. Cracking a few jokes as we wait for Mayor Blurshill to take the stage, I'm completely content with my surroundings. The slightly pudgy old man approaches the podium and begins the annual boring spiel about the revolution and the Dark Days.

Our district escort, Viola Plath, methodically places one heeled foot in front of the other as she makes her way to the podium. She and Mayor Blurshill shake hands and she beams down at the crowd.

"Welcome District Two, to the 49th reaping for the Hunger Games!"

Cheers rise up from the crowd, the games being a symbol of honor and strength to District Two. Viola calms down the crowd with a wave of her hand and sends out another white smile.

"Well, the time has come, let's shake things up this year and go with the boys first, shall we?" She makes it seem like that makes the event more entertaining, but it doesn't.

Her genetically dyed light blue fingers dive into the bowl and she holds up the slip of paper for all to see. Opening it with ease, she unfolds the slip and purses her lips before she reads the name, probably discerning how to pronounce it. Her lips unfold and with a solid smile she reads out the name.

"Nero Lepidus!"

Me shall called me, of all people in this square. After taking a moment to register the words that had escaped Viola's mouth I shoulder my way up to the stage.

"Any volunteers?" She questions with a raised aqua eyebrow.

The regular surge of boys begins to break forward but I silence the wave with a curt but firm, "No."

They stop in their tracks and a few still have the audacity to continue, but not after the menacing glare I throw their way. I'm good with creating a number of facades, I pull out my threatening one, making the would-be volunteers return to their places.

"Well, that was, interesting," Viola laughs and sashays over to the girls bowl.

"Aurora Hyacinth!" she calls out to the crowd.

A small girl, barely thirteen, freezes in her place and a woman, her mother, screams out in pain. Her daughter is being ripped right out from underneath and she collapses to the ground, choking on the sobs that are emitting from her throat. The Peacekeepers wheel Aurora up to the stage and Viola sizes her up and down and then turns to the crowd.

"Any volunteers?"

An expression of horror creeps across my stunned face as I see a figure dart up to the stage. Faster than any of the girls who could have hoped to take Aurora's place, this one in particular makes it there before any of them registered the thought.

"And what is your name?" Viola probes.

"Cassia Lepidus," the girl responds with a sadistic sense of glee.

* * *

My mother and father, the first to register what has just occurred, scream and shout for their children.

"No!" my mother shrieks, "My babies, my children…oh no, oh God," she collapses to the ground and my father rushes to her side.

That is the last image I have from District Two before Cassia and I are carted into the Justice Building by the stalwart peacekeepers.

I can't bear to look at Cassia, she wants me to, but I can't. We are taken to our separate holding rooms and I wait for about a minute until my father bursts into the room.

"I could have dealt with the fact that my strong and beautiful son was taken, I could have put faith in you to win this and return to me, but…" he chokes on his words.

"She's a monster," he definitively stammers about his own daughter.

"She's always seen me as a rival, but this…" I begin to break down as well.

The Peacekeeper knocks on the door and my dad unfastens the worn leather cuff that rests on his wrist. Clasping it onto mine, I read the name stamped into the face of it.

Lepidus.

Looking into my eyes, he pats my shoulder with his strong hands and embraces me.

"I love you son," he starts, "Do me a favor while you're in their?"

"Sure dad," I reply.

"Kill her."

His words stun me, and as he is taken away by the Peacekeeper at the door I know where my mother is.

She is with Cassia, telling her the same exact thing.

* * *

**Cassia Lepidus**

**District Two- Female**

**Courtesy of BarkWoofBark**

* * *

"Mom! The Reaping is in two hours and Nero is still asleep!" I yell as I finish up sewing together the torn hem of my mother's dress.

"Mom!" I shout once more after receiving no reply and to my satisfaction I can hear Nero call from his bedroom, "I'm up!"

A smile on my face, I saunter into the sewing room, where my mother is busy arranging textiles by color in one of her many shelves of materials.

"Cassia dear," she beams upon my entrance, "You fixed my dress, how sweet of you."

I don't have the patience for sewing; it serves no purpose, but if it helps get me deeper into my mother's good graces, then count me in. I deposit the silky gown on the table next to my mother and she holds it up and looks it up and down with pride.

"Good as new darling," she chimes. As if on cue, I can hear Nero trudging down the stairs and with unmatched celerity by anyone in district two, I run into the kitchen and drag my mother with me.

"Cassia!" she complains but I don't care. We arrive in the kitchen just as soon as Nero comes into view and I dig my elbow into my mother's side. With a huff and a smoothing of her blouse, she raises a finger in a half-hearted scold.

"Nero, it is Reaping Day! Cassia was up hours ago, she helped mend that dress I tore last week, and she even got training in Nero, training!" She scolds with a histrionic wag of her outstretched finger. To my delight, an annoyed look lights itself onto Nero's face and he looks at me with contempt. My mother carries herself over to the counter and passes out bowls of fruit, primarily for me because I intend to get some training in before the reaping.

When everything seems to be going perfectly, my father bounds into the kitchen through the front door, earlier than expected.

"Give the boy a break Tulia," the booming voice of my father bounces into the room from the front door. "He's eighteen, last year eligible for the ol 'reaping bowl isn't that right?"

"I need a break, I'm the only one around here who takes training seriously," I mutter under my breath. Nero shoots me a quizzical look and I glare into his dumb golden eyes. I wolf down my breakfast and drop the bowl in the sink, leaving it for my mother to clean. I give Nero one last look of disdain and return to the training room my father had built for Nero and I when we were younger. I can here Nero returning to his room and my heart quickens. I can't believe he doesn't want to squeeze in a few more hours of training before the reaping.

* * *

Positioning myself at the start of the course, I break into a sprint and leap into the air. I reach for the rope dangling from the ceiling and with a jerk on my shoulder, I am on. Swinging to the next rope is no problem and I continue along the path until I reach a raised platform. Jumping off I break my fall with a roll and pick up the bow and arrow lying next to me with speed. I shoot the series of targets in a matter of seconds and grab onto the zip line that carries me down to the next trial. There is a series of tires on the ground and I volley my feet back and forth between and let out a huff of breath as I continue on to my next challenge. Four dummies spring up from out of the ground and I thrust the sword off its podium, into my hand, and then through the necks of all four dummies with a stunning whirl. I run, pumping my legs faster and urging them to continue. I reach the end of the course with a triumphant whoop and check the timer.

I don't care what the time is, as long as it's under Nero's. For the first time it is, by three seconds. I let out an excited and dark cackle, filling the room with my unparalleled glee. I am stronger than Nero, I am faster than Nero. I can beat him.

With my newfound sense of dominance in hand, I carry myself up to his room with a look of shadowy heroism on my face.

"I beat your time in the course downstairs," I say jovially.

"Congratulations, I stopped using that thing last summer, I train at the complex now," he acts unmoved.

"Why are you so mean to me?" I whine with sarcasm thick in my tone.

"Get over it," he snorts.

Whirling on my heels, I almost bump into my mother.

"Cassia, we need to talk," she sounds alarmed.

Following her into my room, she lays out a brilliant red dress on the bed. It sparkles with jewels encrusted down its side and the folds are elegant, joining in one scarlet swoop over the breast area.

"Mom, I can't run in that," I complain.

I tie my dirty blonde hair into a ponytail and stare into the mirror as my mother looks me up and down.

"You've got my hands tied dear," she speaks with lamentation in her tone.

"It's for the best mother," I say.

"He's my son you know," she says, her voice rising.

"And I am your daughter," I snap.

She sighs and leaves the room; a look of regret is painted across her face.

I brush down my sides and smile at my lithe figure; I walk down the stairs and reach for the doorknob when my father stops me.

"Cassia, I thought we would go together, and where is that beautiful dress your mother picked out for you?" he asks.

I groan, wanting to meet up with my boyfriend Markus. He's two years older than me and incredibly attractive. He has these piercing blue eyes that melt my heart. He's my weakness, and I love it.

"Fine, dad," I pout.

With an unsatisfied look he beckons for Nero and we leave the house as a dysfunctional little group. I don't want to be anywhere near Nero, not after he brushed off my triumph over him like it was nothing. I don't want to be near my father, he's a fool. My mother's having doubts about me now, so I decide in my head exactly what I'm going to do.

Reaching the square, I get my blood prick over with and traipse over to Markus, who is standing just outside of the eighteen-year old section. I give him a kiss and he wraps his around me.

"Hey there gorgeous," he coos.

I rub his chest and smile, taking my hand back to my side and winking at him as I make my way over to the eighteen-year old section for girls. I watch as Nero and Markus greet each other and my eyes follow Nero to where he joins a group of boys he talks with at school. A dark smile creeps across my face, and I can't wait to put my plan in action.

Mayor Blurshill goes on and on about the Treaty of Treason and whatnot so I find myself staring up into the clouds, bouncing on the heels of my shoes. My mind is completely absent during our escort's welcome and I regain focus when she lets out the satisfying sentence that she will pick from the boys reaping bowl first.

"Nero Lepidus!" she calls, executing each syllable perfectly.

Stunned, my idiot of a twin makes his way of the stage and stands next to Viola. She struts over to the girls bowl and calls the lucky soul that I'll be saving.

"Aurora Hyacinth!" Viola announces.

The girl's mother's screams can be heard all around the square and I tune out her grievance. I ready myself and like the gun before a race, Viola prompts.

"Any Volunteers?"

I'm off, a blur of speed. I reach the stage before anyone can register what's going on and shout my name for all to hear when Viola asks me what it is.

"Cassia Lepidus!"

I guess she thought I wouldn't do it, because my mother crumbles to the ground in a cacophony of tears. She knew what was going to happen, so I don't see what she's all that upset over. The Peacekeepers take us into the Justice Building after Viola signs off the reaping with the signature,

"Your tributes for the 49th annual Hunger Games! Nero and Cassia Lepidus!" The shock still evident on her face that I volunteered to fight my brother to the death.

* * *

Nero won't look at me as we are guided down the hall of the Justice Building into our respective waiting rooms. I cast a look of victory at him the entire time and can only think of what is running through his mind. This is going to be so much fun.

Markus beats my mother to the room and slaps me across the face.

"What the hell Cassia?" he shouts.

I grab his wrist and wrench it behind his back, and slam him up against the wall.

"Hit me again," I rub my hand around the zipper of his pants, "And I'll rip it off."

I back away and he looks up at me unforgivingly, "I know it's your dream to compete Cassia, but when your own brother is reaped I thought you would give it up. I knew you would volunteer, being your last year and all, but I stopped thinking that after his name was called. I…can't believe you."

He leaves, presumably for good, and I don't really care. I told myself I would push through every misfortune that came across me when I put this plan in action, and I don't intend to back out now.

My mother is next, tears fresh on her face.

"I did this for you, I did this…" she sobs.

"You did good mother," I praise, as if she were a pupil.

She sinks to the floor again and I tell her to get up, with little real emotion she unclasps the brooch that she is wearing. A brilliant green gemstone encrusted with the capitol letter L, she fastens it to me and looks into my eyes.

"Be brave," she says in a plaintive voice.

She departs and I can only laugh. I did it, I actually threw my own brother into the games and now I am by his side. But he will fall, by my hand, I can assure that. A week before the reaping, I went to the training complex that Nero loves so much, and I had a private meeting with his instructor, Orion Zultsbee. Orion is a previous victor, so he'll be here, alongside the others, to mentor my brother and I.

I placed a knife to Orion's throat, and told him that if he didn't make sure that every name in that bowl was Nero Lepidus, I would gut him and his family like pigs. He didn't take me seriously at first, being a killer himself. So, I stabbed the knife into his hand. He told my mother, so I threatened her too, and together my mother and Orion rigged the ballots for the boys bowl. No one knew, not Viola, not Blurshill, not President Snow. It's the coincidence of the century.

I don't really know when my rivalry with Nero started, I think it was because everyone loves him, they call him 'Golden Boy' and treat him like a hotshot. No one gave me that attention, no one nicknamed me anything haughty and respectable. I would cry, almost every night, pleading that Nero would fall from his pedestal, but he never did. So I decided to knock him off myself, metaphorically and literally.

The Peacekeeper comes to get me and I walk out into the hallway, wrenching myself free from his guiding grip. I assure him that I'm not going anywhere and make my way to the train that awaits us. I see Orion and Nymue, I think her name is, at least I know she's another mentor, talking in the cart and I wave at Orion. He sees me and I swear he shudders. I am in control.

Nero is wheeled out next to me by a Peacekeeper and this time we make eye contact. He looks at me, tears covering his face and disbelief pouring out of his gaping mouth.

"Ladies first," I laugh and step onto the train before him.

He walks forward, and stumbles, and I laugh to myself.

The 49th annual Hunger Games will belong to me.


	4. District 3 Reapings- Blood and Fire

**A/N: First of all, I would like to apologize. I feel as if I did not bring the characters of Nero and Cassia to life in the fullest, and I would like to make it known that it is quite difficult to expound upon Cassia's hatred of Nero in a location that isn't the Capitol. The plot line between the two of them will develop, I promise. Furthermore, I was disappointed in the amount of reads and reviews with last chapter, because those are truly what keep writers writing. So please read and review, it means the world to us authors. Enough of this talk however, for here is…the District Three Reaping!**

* * *

**Leo Ventras**

**District Three- Male**

**Courtesy of Theboyfrom3**

* * *

Living on a farm on the outskirts of a little town which is not far from a big town in District Three has its perks. Being an only son and the only man around after my father was mustered to the capitol plants a sense of duty in a boy. My mother runs the farm; she bore me and still possesses the time to practice her theologies of reason and logic. Believing my father to not survive the rebellion in six, lost to the wild and barbarous manners of the rebels, she prepared herself daily for meeting him in what she called the beyond. It was well she did, for my father died in that rebellion; his blood stained the cobblestones of the path and left its ephemeral mark on the boots of his murderer.

Grief is a funny thing; it is so powerful, yet so indescribably beautiful. Grief will pull the true designs of a heart to the front and display the inner workings for all to see. Well, only for those who are around to see it. I was the only one to watch my mother squirm in the dirt and mourn my late father. She became a shell of her former state, breathing whispers into the dust, asking for her love to return. It was only proper for I to run the farm from this point on, and it was well I did, just as well as my mother had prepared herself for the death of my father, if not more.

My aching muscles flexed back into their resting places as I set down the heavy buckets of grain. The cows dip their heads in a quiet thanking, and greedily lick up the contents of the pail with their long and pink tongues. My arms ache, my feet ache, my head aches. I ache.

It sounds weird, to work on a farm in District Three. However, we don't really live in district three, my mother and I. We live on the outskirts of a little town which is not far from a big town in District Three. So, you could say we live in District Nine, because we live on the edge that borders the long waves of grain that make up Nine's economy. Living in no parallel to the electronic factories that populate Three make life simple, its grandeur the stillness of the fields and its solace the rafters of the barn. I like it, for the most part.

My mother Ophelia is something of a devil- unhinged by the death of my father, Atlas. Wild blood began to course through her veins in the wake of my father's departure; she made her labors undesirable and uncouth, her faculties disoriented and sloppy. She enjoyed her hickory stick, never letting it leave her cold grip. She drank, and gambled with her sisters, feeding our money directly to the belly of poverty. That wasn't the worst part though.

Returning from my duties in the barn, I attempt to open the screen door as quietly as possible, but the winds of fortune are not in my favor, as a heavy gale blows the knob from my hand and the door crashes into the wall on the other side. Disturbing my mother's worship of the bottle, she carries herself into the front of the house with a mean visage, ready to spit her venom like a snake.

When my father entered the beyond, my mother looked for a new god. She found it in vengeance. Her god was not a kind one, but as it turns out-neither was she. She blamed her conditioning on dreams she had while my father was away, telling her all sorts of blasphemies and wickedness. Her new god was an expert in punishment, and he demanded of her a sacrifice.

"Boy," she spoke with a leveled leer, "I am no fool."

The supposition of deceit was her favorite fallback. She was skeptical of my dealings, if I said I was in the barn, I was shooting skeet with my dog, if I was shooting skeet with my dog, I was in the barn. She rubbed her fingers up and down the cusp of the hickory stick, never taking her eyes off of her sacrifice.

"Am I a fool to you?"

"No ma'am," I stutter.

"Den' why was you in de' fields?"

"I wasn't in the fields, ma'am."

The stick, as quick as death, comes across my face like a fly does a horse's tail. There one second and gone the next. Not the pain though, the pain stays. I let out a whimper, a small one, but loud enough for her sharp ears to pick up on it. Despite all her dealings in drink, her senses have not dulled a bit.

"You was in the fields," she corrects me.

"Why was you in the fields?" She questions quickly, not offering me time to challenge her.

"I was in the fields because I am bad," I state with solid indifference.

Again, this time slower, but still fast as a hare, the hickory stick meets my knee. I falter, and stumble I do, to the ground in anguish. I look up at my mother, a lonely tear in my eye.

"Why is you cryin?"

I meet her gaze, a triumphant evil dancing in her black as night pupils.

"Because I am a bad boy," I choke out.

"That's right," she smiles.

Rage was in her voice, and I felt the creeping fear: but she knew she had a moment left before the reaping. Too many times had she seen the destructive machine that chopped down anything in its way. Rage came first and then a coldness, a possession, noncommittal eyes and a pleased smile and no voice at all, only a whisper. When that happened, murder was on the way, but cool, deft murder, and hands that worked precisely, delicately. I swallowed my saliva to dampen my dry throat. I think of nothing to say that could be heard, for once in her rage, my mother will not listen, will not even hear. She bulks darkly in front on me, shorter, wider, thicker, but still not crouched. In the light of the morning sun my mother's lips shine with wetness.

I begin to back away, but carefully, as one backs away from a snake. Then, with speed and accuracy together, I feel the strikes on my temples, cheeks, eyes. I feel my lip split and tatter over my teeth, but the stick is thickened and dull, as though it were encased in heavy rubber. Dully, my mother wonders why I did not cry out, why unconsciousness did not come to me. The beating continues eternally. I can hear my mother panting with the quick explosive breath of a sledgehammer, and in the sick sunlit morning I could see my mother from the tear-watered blood that cascaded from my eyes. I see the innocent, noncommittal eyes, the small smile on her wet lips, and as I saw these things-the world flashed between light and darkness.

Consciousness came, like a leaf in the wind, still and unprecedented, but appreciated all the same. I attempt to rise, but my muscles betray me, leaving my control as I slump to the ground once more. I hear them, footsteps, creeping closer and closer, like the calm before the storm. In a half-hearted attempt to shield myself, I raise my hands above my mid-section and brace for the coming torture.

"Get up boy," the callous growl of my mother commands me.

I struggle, I almost fall, but I don't. She steadies me, offering me false help in the cool morning air. I steady, as much as I can, and wonder why she doesn't call forth her evil again. She brushes off my shoulder, not in comfort, but in an effort to wipe off the dust that sits on my shoulders. She leans on her stick, the same stick that shattered my ribs and broke my cheek. I cannot look at that stick, I cannot look at her.

"The reaping," she says as if it were something standing in the room with us. Some physical deity as opposed to the emotional devil it actually is. The drive to the center of town is long; living on the outskirts of a little town that is close to a big town in District Three has its flaws.

* * *

When we get there, I am weak, slipping between reality and unconsciousness. I creep out of the battered pick-up truck and stand. My hurts are stiffening and the blood is dried in a crust on my face. I think I will stand here until I am moved by someone else, but that doesn't happen. Sending a look of sincere austerity my way, my mother wraps her wiry fingers around the edges of the stick again, very akin to the way she had only an hour ago. It seems like in another world she caused my suffering, but the aches in my bones remind me otherwise.

I feel as though I cannot answer any questions, for I do not know any answers, and trying to find one is harsh to my battered mind. My mother asks me if I will stand there all though, and as nice as that would, I succumb to her severity, this time dragging my feet along the dirt and brick. Dizziness edged with blue lights comes fringing into my vision and the sense of fainting comes and fleets, like a thundercloud that has another place to rain on in its agenda.

I shuffle slowly up the road with wide-spread legs. At the stoop of the hill leading to the district square, I look up. The Peacekeeper manning the entrance to the event gives no impression of noticing my bloodied face. I don't wince as my blood is drawn for the record books, I don't even feel it. Numbness secretes into my veins and I can't even focus. The boy next to me in the fifteen-year-old section gives me a look that is puzzled and wondering. He wipes his fingers on his pants, the beads of sweat forming on his open palm.

The mayor, a stout man with a hearty bead walks to the center of the stage. He walks fine, no limp, no bruises, like a normal man. His face is jolly, his lips curl into a smile. His name is Woolworth, a man of genius and kindness. I wouldn't know what that is though, I'm never here.

He recites his speech, detailing the rebellion and the dark days with pride, speaking of how it formed the wonderful collage of a nation we have today. It sickens me, almost as much as my mother does. I would look for her face, but my neck doesn't agree to move, so I let my head hang in fake attentiveness. Woolworth concludes his speech and our district escort, a man I do not know the name of, his face painted a gaudy green and his nails painted like a woman. A festive hat sits on his head, and a brilliant suit is what he wears. His shoes click together, like men shaking hands, and he delivers a bright and satisfying introduction to the film arranged by the capitol.

I do not watch, for I would have to crane my neck.

The escort stands in front of the bowl, laughing delightedly at the prospect of sending children to their death. It sounds inviting, to leave this district and spend a few days in the capitol, I could do without the bloodshed, my family's blood has been spilled enough. When the man stumps out to the podium, slip in hand, filled with a bubbling anxiety as to who it will be, a thought clicks into my brain, so unwonted due to the disarray of my senses.

His lips, unfurling into a genuine sense of confusion, mispronounce the name on the card.

The confusion is general, and one of the previous victors rushes to his side. Opus is her name, and she snatches the card from the escort impatiently, reciting the name with her own voice.

"Roran Dubois!"

It has always seemed strange to me that is usually boys like Roran who are forced to do the soldiering. A small boy, ill-equipped to fight, and far from learning how to. I possess repulsion for violence that increases by the day, strengthening with each blow of the hickory stick. Something I learned from my tenure as sole protector of the farm was how to chop wood, how to chop it with speed and precision. An axe in my hand is as deadly as the hickory stick in the hand of my mother, the stacks of wood that rest on the panels of our house can attest to that. I am strong, as an ox, I live on the outskirts of a little town that is close to a big town in District Three.

I am something the rest of the boys in District Three are not.

"I volunteer!" I whisper, hoarse and delicate, unheard by Opus and the escort.

"I volunteer!" My voice picks up wind, and it is heard.

"A volunteer?" the escort shrieks in surprise, those words rarely escaping his throat. I shuffle up to the stage, my feet like chains. I am weary, I am broken, but I am doing Roran a service. A silent look of thanks is on his face, and I bow my head in understanding. The escort takes my hand and he is delicate with his touch. His gloved hand is soothing on my shark like skin and he gives me a warm look. Roran descends the stairs, uniting with the relieved and shaken arms of his mother. I am hero in this moment, but the feeling evades me after a moment and I return to my state of despair. I do not hear the girl's name, nor do I see her. I do not need to, she is my enemy. The words of the escort drown in the cavernous waters of my ear, sinking like a ship made of steel. I am taken into the confines of the Justice Building, and there I sit.

* * *

"You are a bad boy," my mother scolds as I cower on the floor of the Justice Building, her hickory stick running along the edges of my bruised face.

"A very bad boy," she reiterates.

"Do you think you can escape me?" her voice is laced with poison.

I spit on her shoe, leaving a shiny mark on the front of her boot as it trickles down the side. She looks at me, and laughs. It sounds awful, like a devil's orchestra, filled with crescendos of deceit. She removes the stick from my face, to my surprise.

"Your body is a callous," she informs me. I look up, unsure of her next movement, her game of cloak and dagger continues.

"Win this game, and return to me, my son," she instructs, but with a different tone, warm and gentle, caring and sure. Her voice is like an acidic honey, it sickens me. There is something wrong; the hint of unfinished business is in her eyes. I feel as if she will hit me again, as her hand returns to the top of the hickory stick, rubbing it with earnest. She taps my side, inflaming my hurts. My mind rolls in a painful mist as she begins to elaborate on what she truly means.

"You are aware of something most boys from three are not, pain," the words strike me like a whip but I know they are true and I wince in agreement as she continues her speech, "You are strong, defiant, and clever, you are everything that an insurgent needs to be."

"What's an insurgent?" I dare to question.

"A rebel," she answers without striking me for once.

Confusion warps my thoughts; I don't understand what she means. She delicately places a worn hand on my battered cheekbone, and I flinch, but she means no harm. The instinctive fear and fierceness of a rat comes over me, I push myself onto my knees and drag myself across the room.

"I don't understand," I mutter.

"Finish what I could not, your father's death was the fault of the capitol, they dragged him from me, they made me a monster!" Her voice rises, which is unfamiliar to me because she always keeps a frigid tone. Her hands are moving, working quickly in the air, displaying her emotions in a painting of thought.

"Show the capitol, that we do not belong to them," she concludes.

The Peacekeeper who stood at the top of the hill comes to get her, he does not drag her, she complies, willing and determined. My mother has steel for bones, her actions are preconceived. The door shuts on me, and I think about what it was my mother had actually meant. Ophelia Ventras is not a woman of wasted words, when she speaks, she has reason, her theologies never left her, but simply adapted to a new host. I know she wants me to rebel, but not openly, that would sign my death warrant. I do not know why I will fulfill her plea, why I will satiate the thirsts of the woman who beat me into a servant instead of a son. Maybe it's because she's the only person I have left, or maybe it's because despite the want to flee life, one must have a purpose.

I feel the necklace around my neck, the only reminder of my father, and I approach the train with content. I am not sad I am leaving, nor am I happy. I am walking to my own funeral, it is an odd feeling, I cannot describe it, but when one is aware that death is imminent, you go towards it with a resolute decisiveness, you are not angry or sad.

I do not see my district partner's face as we board the train to the capitol, I do not see her tears or her pleas, I do not hear her. I still limp; my blood is still hardened onto my face, the beating from this morning obvious on my skin. The black and blue that decorates my body is a symbol of where I come from, my token from District Three. I am the boy who lived on the outskirts of a little that is not far from a big town. I am fulfilling my mother's last wish. I am going into the Hunger Games.

* * *

**Maud Perrin**

**District Three- Female**

**Courtesy of pr1ncess1**

* * *

District Three is a gem surrounded by all sorts of rough terrains. Bordered by District Two's "The Nut", it is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the rivers wind and twist up the center of the district until they fall into the seas of District 4. Just outside the outskirts of the smallest town, the grain fields of nine run for miles, but we are only bordered by them for a small stretch. This is what I am told however, because I don't get out much.

I pull, careful not to damage any sinew, threading the final workings of the tiny dress I hold in my hand. Satisfied with my creation, and turn and fit it onto the doll that waits to be clothed. Smiling to myself, I am pleased with my work, but not as pleased as I could be. If only I could do it so effortlessly, like my grandmother. Her bony hands weave tiny doll clothes quickly, like how a hot knife cuts butter. She spoils me rotten, I know it, but I can't help but enjoy it, she is my only family member. As if on a parallel with my thoughts, my grandmother, Geraldine, appears in my doorway.

"Maud," she fusses, "What are you doing? The reaping is today and you need to focus on what you'll be wearing and not what that doll is. After all, you are going to the reaping and not her."

I smile weakly, I love my grandmother to death, I do, but she is just so nagging. Everything must be perfect, the sheets must be creased a certain way and the curtains must be drawn at a certain length. Everything is an art to my grandmother; she prides herself in her decorum. I reluctantly set down my doll and rise, carrying myself past my grandmother and towards the shower. I'm not dirty, I never am, but I shower nonetheless. It is soothing, and keeps me in my clean state, which I never leave. I know I am pampered, but I revel in it, it is a blessing and I am grateful for it. My parent's death may have been inconvenient, but they were factory workers, and I am much better off than I would be with them.

My parents died in a factory fire, the only escape had been through a window and my parents hadn't been able to make it out in time. The story includes the part of my father gallantly shielding my mother from the flames, but they both burned to a crisp in the end. I was young, too young. I don't remember their faces. The only face I know is my grandmother.

And Cynthia, I know Cynthia's face. Cynthia Stalbert is a girl much like me; she keeps to herself and minds her manners, knowing when to speak and when to remain silent. We are like stone guardians, Cynthia and I, we do what we are told and keep a civil tongue. However, when no one is looking, we sneak an extra dinner roll or pull faces. We enjoy our dashes of furtive fun, it's our only excitement.

The steaming water trickles down my back, it envelops me, and it feels great. The steam clouds the mirror, fogging it and I can't see my reflection when I step out. My faded figure bends to and fro, as I dry my body with a silken towel laid out for me. The mirror's fog begins to recede and slowly I can see my petite frame come into view. I am young and light at thirteen years old, like a ballerina or a gymnast. My figure is lithe, I can sneak and my footsteps are silent. I don't think about the Games much, but when I do, I think about how my only hope could be my unrivaled ability to go unnoticed.

After my shower, I find myself staring at a sparkling periwinkle dress, it matches my eyes perfectly. My dark brown hair falls to my shoulders and I do a little twirl in front of the mirror. I giggle as the dress spins around my ankles, for my figure, I look pretty good.

I hear feet making their way up the stairs and my grandmother appears once again.

"Look at you," she marvels with a gasp, "Just like your mother."

I thank her for the comment, and notice the tears welling in her eyes. My mother had been her daughter, and although my grandmother was strong, the pain never quite left her eyes. And in spite of this, in all the years she had cared for me, she never mentioned my uncanny resemblance to my mother. My grandmother places her hands on her hips and purses her lips.

"It needs something," she determines.

She darts out the room and I hear her shuffling around in her room. Moments later she returns, a ring with a crimson stone in her hand. Slipping it onto my left ring finger with tender care, she lets out a breath of startling happiness. She takes a few steps back to admire me, and comments, "The red offsets the blue nicely."

That is her judgment, and it is law. When my grandmother figures something, she is wooden-headed about it. She carries her preconceived notions with her through fire and brimstone and does not halt to reflect on facts. Geraldine is not a woman of contemplation.

When she is done being enamored by my looks, the doorbell rings. Descending the stairs, she opens the door and welcomes in Cynthia, who looks good in her yellow sundress. I say good, because I don't want her to look better than me. Her arrival and her appearance make the horrors of the Hunger Games dance in my mind. We only exchange brief comments about the impending possibility of being reaped before we depart. My grandmother grabs her umbrella, claiming sunlight spoils the skin, and we all saunter out into the square.

"Be good dearie, see you when it's over," my grandmother says with a wink. Her charm makes me happy, and the Games leave my mind until the blood is drawn from my finger with the mechanical sound of the pinprick. It stings and my face contorts, Cynthia does the same behind me. I should have brought an umbrella, because being in the sun makes my skin crawl. Cynthia and I warily position ourselves amongst the other thirteen-year-old girls and await the arrival of the mayor. We never talk during reapings, too afraid of the danger of going into the games. We are silent, even when the cheering erupts at the sight of the mayor.

"Welcome!" Mayor Woolworth booms. "Welcome all, to the 49th annual reaping for those who will represent district three in the Hunger Games!"

The revelry continues, half genuine, half falsely constructed by the will of the Peacekeepers.

I listen to every word of the Mayor's speech, noting the treachery of the rebellion, the poverty of the Dark Days and the generosity of the Treaty of Treason. I am attentive to fine detail and hope the mayor won't probe me for questions on what he said, he never does, but I still think he will. When Woolworth is finished, our district escort walks to the podium from his seat by our past victors. We have three.

The first is Opus, who won five years ago. Opus is young, bright and savage. She is a perfect mixture of barbarism and class, intellect and brutality. Her olive skin shines in the morning sun and she smiles brightly, making her skin seem darker than it is. The next victor is Lug, a middle-aged man with round spectacles and thinning grey hair. He nervously rubs his hands on his pants and his dart all around. Lug is something of a mad scientist and is only here because he has to be, he graciously bowed out of the mentoring process when Opus won her games. The third victor is the other mentor, his name is Tesla. Tesla is older than most, but his wits increase with his age. Tesla literally rewired his mines on the podium and blew up the tributes nearest to him before the games began. He was plagued by the President for some time because of that stunt, and his family suffered. However, Tesla won his freedom with the invention of the Peacekeeper suit, making it mobile, light, and virtually indestructible. Tesla still mentors tributes, believing that it is his duty to make sure that those with great ideas aren't swallowed by the hunger games.

Our district escort's name is Jubilee Carson. Jubilee is too excited, and I yawn as he carries on about his enthrallment with district three. The only thing he does to attract my attention is question the volunteer status of a young man.

"A volunteer?" Jubilee asks.

The boy onstage almost jumps for joy, and returns to the wide arms of his mother. He was saved, I missed his initial reaping, but he was saved. I look at my nails, the faint blue is beginning to chip. The boy who volunteered looks like he was hit by a train. Dried blood cakes his face and he walks with a gait. His arms and legs are peppered with black and blue bruises and he looks dead on the inside. Jubilee notices this as well, and almost looks frightened by the boy's presence.

I can hear Cynthia praying beside me, she whispers her mutterings almost inaudibly, but my ears can pick up on most things. It's part of my stealthy and small personality.

"For the girls!" Jubilee hisses in delight.

He reaches into the bowl, and I am in denial. It is impossible for me to be picked. My name is only in the bowl twice, there is seriously no way I could be reaped.

"Maud Perrin!"

I was wrong. Dead wrong it appears. Cynthia's mouth drops open and mine does as well. I am stunned, and my body refuses to leave its standing place. The Peacekeepers herd me onto the stage, letting Jubilee's powdered fingers intertwine with mine. He holds my hand high, and does the same for the boy, Leo.

"Ladies and gentleman, I give you your District Three tributes!"

I can't find my grandmother in the crowd, but I can already feel her pain. First her daughter and son-in-law, and now the only one she has left, me.

* * *

She finds me in the Justice Building, and sobs into my shoulder.

"I am reverent, I am devout, I do not decry the Lord and I do not take his blessings for granted," my grandmother cries.

"I'll be fine," I lie.

"Maud, my dear Maud, taken from me like my daughter was taken," she moans.

I stroke her hair, and comfort her. It should be the other way around, but I can understand her pain.

"That ring," she changes the subject.

I study it; the crimson jewel shines in what little light soaks the room. It is splendid and I wonder what she will say of it.

"It belonged to your mother, but keep it, as a reminder," she tells me.

Our eyes lock and I understand, she can't be reminded any more.

"I love you," her voice breaks.

"I love you too."

The peacekeepers drag her old bones out the door and I cry out after her, but instead of getting my grandmother back, I get Cynthia.

"I'll miss you," my best friend states.

"I'll miss you too."

She can't bear it and breaks down, once again I comfort. I should be sobbing, I should be uncontrollably moaning. I have to tend to everyone else first. When Cynthia leaves, the Peacekeeper comes and gets me, and I begin to feel the full force of my fate. I am pampered, rich and spoiled, no training, never held a weapon, more or less seen one. I am helpless, and I am walking into an arena filled with bloodthirsty savages.

Before I board the train that will whisk me away to the capitol, I study the crimson color once more. There is something odd about the design, the jewels do not line up on the bottom of the encrusting. I run my fingers over it and suddenly, the jewel flips open, not being a jewel at all. I stare into the complex workings and notice that a small powder the color red fills up the basin left over.

A thought creeps into my head, I am not out of this yet, if I can use this to its full extent, I could come home. I smile, because in my head I know they'll all count me out from the start, and it pleases because as they underestimate me, they are disregarding the girl from 3, who has an asset none of them have.

It is Nuclear Fire, a powder developed by thirteen before its demise. It is used for poisoning; one drop will turn either a crumb of bread or a whole river into an acidic terror. I close the ring shut and board the train, confidence in my stride and determination in my step.

I am coming home.

**A/N: I have to thank Theboyfrom3 and pr1ncess1 for these wonderful tributes. I loved writing this one and hope I did a much better job painting a picture of these tributes then last time. Please Review, Favorite and Follow, it would mean the world to me! Writing these chapters takes a lot of my time up, so what pushes me to continue is all those comments and subscriptions. Thank You to all my readers, and those who submitted, because the SYOT is closed! I can't believe that happened by the third reaping. That's amazing! So thanks again, and may the odds be ever in your favor.**


	5. District 4 Reapings- A Date With Destiny

**A/N: I have to thank IVV and richards25 so much for these fantastic tributes! I love the completely separate emotional characteristics these two possess, and I truly believe that they are as wonderful as those that created them! I know that this chapter took a bit to arrive, but trust me, its still on my mind and a great deal too. Please Read and Review, I can't stress how important reviews are to me! They make me want to write more! So, on with the show...here is District Four!**

* * *

**Rip Crevan**

**District 4- Male**

**Courtesy of IceVeinsVillain**

* * *

Before I was thrown in prison, I used to swim out by the jagged rocks that decorate the coastlines of District Four's beautiful seas. The water glimmers there, with a certain shine that invites only the bravest to test the treacherous waters. I was one of them, the brave; I swam in the wake of crashing waves and bathed in the shining waters. That is not how it is anymore, now I sit in the prison, but I am not wasting away.

Pumping the bar up and down, I exhale my hot breath as I complete my workout. My muscles are much more prominent then they used to be, but I am not a hulking terror. I am wiry, lean, like a wolf, one that is caged by an angry flock of men. I put the bar back in its resting place and shuffle back to my cell, the guards constantly watching me with keen eyes. I reach my small home, and I plop down on the cot that is chained to the wall. One of the guards slams the barred door shut, and the rattling of the bars can be heard for a few moments. I sit up, and run my fingers through my dark brown hair. I refuse to look at the walls that surround me, I can't handle being locked up for another day. It's been so long, I need to stretch my body somewhere outside of this wretched prison.

But I can't, I'm in here until I die. Such a stiffening set of words to hear, that you will spend the rest of your life caged like some animal, like a leper. Despite all that though, I'm content with my punishment because I fulfilled my promise to my mother. I didn't tell her the promise of course, but I vowed that one day when I was strong, smart and devoted enough, I would kill my father. My father was not someone that I treasured as the man who taught me right from wrong and guided me on the path of growing up. He was never there, he left my mother when he figured out she was pregnant. Didn't want to get his hands dirty with a child. My mother was forced to work days and nights at the wharf to support us, so I was home alone a lot.

I practiced first with animals, mainly seagulls. One doesn't realize how hard it is to hit a bird in flight with a knife until you actually try. Standing on the beach, the other children too frightened by my unwonted antics to hang around, I would hurl knives I stole from the back windows of the butcher at the birds. The first time I hit one, I nicked it's wing, and it crashed to the ground without its aerial support. I didn't know what to do, I thought I didn't have it in me when I started to ask for forgiveness. Then I thought, well if I can't kill a bird how can I kill a man?

I stomped heel of my boot on the head of the seagull, satisfying the sickening crunch of its tattered skull. Bits of brain seeped out, and the bird let out one last exhausted pant. I let the waves carry the body to its sunken funeral, the tides would decide where its final resting place was. Satisfied with my kill, I began to religiously stroll down to the beach in the afternoons to practice, honing my skills with the tiny knives.

I became quicker with my kills, nailing nearly every bird I targeted. Then a funny thing happened, the birds stopped coming to the beach. They left a few at a time and then one day when I was thirteen, they were all gone. I took it as a sign, that it was time, time to carry out the sinister act that I had so long planned in my mind. There was only one problem…I had no clue as to who my father was.

I learned from my mother, I would begin conversations alluding to my father and I think after about ten or eleven talks like those she got the picture.

"I want you to go to the butcher and ask who buys salmon on Wednesdays," she had ordered me about a month after the birds had left the beach.

I thought it would be fruitless, I didn't care who bought salmon on Wednesdays. Then the thought clicked into my brain as if someone had flipped a switch, and I briskly carried myself down to the butcher and promptly asked the question.

"The mayor," the butcher replied suspiciously.

My heart stopped, I swear for about a fraction of a second, it stopped. Out of everyone in district four, my father was Mayor Janas Whirling. He had changed his name from Richard Crevan, which is my real first name. I hate it though, and only my mother calls me Richard. I was so distraught that my plan would come to an end, that after all the work I'd done, that my father would live.

Then I decided that I would go through with it, and tenacity bubbled under my skin. I took to planning, day and night, forgoing schooling, because I didn't care about an education. I drew up a plan so meticulous and malevolent that it almost seemed a bit to ghoulish, but I shrugged off the notion. I waited until the day before the reaping of my thirteenth year, and walked down to the Justice Building.

"I'm here to see Whirling," I spoke with a cheery tone when I came to the main door of the Justice Building.

"State your business boy," the Peacekeeper at the door demanded.

"Actually, the mayor's duty is to see his citizens without need of appointment or confirmation, so I really don't have to tell you my business," I snapped with a snarky tone. I didn't care what that Peacekeeper thought, I just had to get to my father.

"I don't like you very much," the Peacekeeper stated with a misty glare as he let me into the building and directed me to Mayor Whirling's office. When I arrived at the door, I braced myself, I knew I had to do it in one swift motion or else the whole plan would be blown, sent off into the night like a billow of smoke. I swung the door open and flipped open my knife, striding to the desk and lunging forward, slipping the knife into the throat of the figure who sat at the desk.

It wasn't my father, it was a woman. His secretary, I didn't even stop to check her name tag to see whose life I had just mistakenly taken. I thought for a moment what the ramifications would be, had I split a family or just murdered some sort of pariah. I didn't reflect on it too long, I can't really remember that part. I just know that right after I had killed her, my father walked into the office and just like that I ended his life as well. I didn't have the same element of surprise I had carried against his secretary however, and he was able to cry out before his life disappeared in front of him. The Peacekeepers grabbed me, breaking my arms and kicking the knife from my hand. They bound me in ropes and whipped me in the square, making my back sting with red welts in front of the district. My mother wasn't there, she knew what I had done but she couldn't bear to be witness to her child's public ignominy. I never saw her again.

* * *

So now I sit in this cell, the dark confines of the chamber my only companion. I don't even know what day it is, nor do I care. The only thing I focus on in here is my physique. That's all I can do, all I can work on. Despite my wicked nature, I always need something to do; I think I have ADD or something. I can't just sit and think about what I did like the Peacekeepers and the new mayor want me to; I have to work towards something, accomplish some sort of goal. So I pump weights up and down every day, for a good portion of my day. I'm much stronger than I was before, but it doesn't really matter.

I don't respond at first when the peacekeeper comes to my cell to wake me up for the reaping. I took a nap in after I hit the gym, and was still damp with sweat. I join the line of other boys in line to take a shower, there aren't many of us, but we go to the reapings nonetheless. Confused at first after waking up so abruptly, I ask the boy in front of me what's going on and he fills me in on the reapings.

"Reaping day dumbass," he chortles darkly.

There are only two boys in front of him and I'm the last in line, the guards guide us to the shower room, we are under constant supervision at all times. The Peacekeepers slam the door shut behind us, and we are watched by surveillance cameras as we strip down to take a shower. It's sort of awkward, because the room is a square, white walls and a white tile floor. One single drain sits in the middle of the room, and the architecture of the floor is sloped, so whenever water pours down from any area, it will sink to the drain in the center. Showerheads adorn the wall every five feet, so we have our own personal areas. There is only one bar of soap.

We strip down and make sure to avert each other's gaze. Geoffrey, the boy who was in front of me takes the bar of soap and lathers his body, passing it to me and I proceed to do the same. My toned body is covered in translucent bubbles that travel slowly down my sides. The boy next to me wrenches the bar from my hand and I walk over to my showerhead, pressing the button for the water to be released. The water is freezing, cold as ice on my skin, and I shudder as the suds are rinsed off of my body. I run my fingers down my chest and arms to scrape off the grime and when I'm done I reach for a towel. When we are all done, the Peacekeepers guide our naked bodies to a dressing room and we slip on the jeans salvaged from the dumps. There are boots with holes in the front, leaving toes exposed to the elements. Shirts are passed around, and I slip on some ratty grey rag and when I'm done, I feel a hand rest on my shoulder.

While the other boys like Geoffrey are simply corralled by the Peacekeepers and kept in line, separate from the other boys and girls but not made a public mockery. I on the other hand, am a murderer, so I am bound in chains, and I don't care. I know my few moments of fame will come to me soon, and I can't wait to plague the dreams of those who catch my gaze out in the square.

I'm infamous for my crime; mothers use my name when trying to scare their children into stopping their frivolities. "Be good or they'll let Rip out," they chide and the children scramble to get in line for their mothers. I relish my moments out of the prison, making sure that the little horror story of District Four remains true.

A knife of sunshine permeates the darkness of the prison as the Peacekeeper leading me heaves the door open. He pushes me forward, and my chains rattle in the still morning air. The second we break into the light, I assume my role as the wild devil. I've always been a bit harrowing, but I let it become my very embodiment when I go to the reapings. I don't even worry my mind with the prospect of actually being reaped; I just worry about giving the others twice the more anxiety.

I am bound, and I totter forward as the Peacekeeper drags me to the square. Sunlight pierces my skin, and I wince as if I were touching flames. My misty eyes are not attuned to the fire in the sky, and I have to focus my sight on something else, like the girls who are walking on my right.

"Morning ladies," I growl and they suddenly become aware of my presence.

One of them lets out a little yelp and with a petrified look on their faces they scurry away. Laughter escapes me, I can't hold it in, I am just getting started. By the time we get to the square, I have frightened my fair share of children. Since we are of a separate class, and I am sort of telling the truth when I say, us prison boys are only there for the actual reaping. No mayor's speech, no capitol movie, none of that nonsense. We are just there to see if we win our freedom in the lottery of souls.

"Ula Ermin!" the escort calls out.

She is pretty, to a degree. I whistle at her at several people shoot me disapproving looks until they figure out who I am.

"Leave him be honey, he's _crazy_," I hear a mother whisper to her child. The propaganda spread about me is ridiculous. The murder was pre-meditated, I've been well aware of who I am and what I am since the beginning. Nor did I paint the walls of the Justice Building with blood like the urban legend says I did, I'm a bit of a celebrity, for all the wrong reasons.

The escort shoves his fingers into the boy's bowl; I swear his index finger is layered in fat. His greasy hands pick up about five slips and he has to shake them off and back into the bowl to single out just one paper. His fat hands have an ordeal trying to open the thing and his curses are audible across the square. He blushes after he realizes this, and proceeds to read the name hastily, trying to finish the reaping.

"Richard Crevan!" he blurts out quickly.

"Ha!" I shout and everyone looks my way.

"Oh, you're serious?" I raise my eyebrows.

"Is that your name young man," the escort says, eying my chains with a protective glance, as if I am going to try and slice him to pieces.

"Are you a fat mess?" I shoot back.

He looks hurt, and I love it.

"Well there's your answer," I snicker.

My excitement builds, I can win my freedom. I am well aware that if I come back a victor, not only will I win my freedom but my mother and I can live in victor's village and never be bothered again. I can do this, and with that knowledge in hand I turn to the Peacekeepers.

"Well boys, you don't expect me to get up on stage covered in these rusty chains? By God, where were the shiny ones? I need to look presentable for the capitol."

The crowd is nervous, they think I'm insane and I let them, savoring every minute of their predictable fear. The Peacekeepers do release my bonds, but holds my arms behind my back as they wheel me onto the stage.

Ula looks disgusted with me, and she has every right to be. I am the psycho who killed his father, but I have killed before, and shooting her the same disgusted look she gets the message.

"District 4! Your tributes!" the pudgy oaf applauds and no one says a word. Not a cheer is offered and no two hands meet in clapping. Ula and I are taken into the Justice Building and that is the end of it.

* * *

"Oh Richard, what have you gotten into," my mother sobs as she holds my hands in hers, staring into my faded eyes.

"Mom, I got this," I assure with indifference, "We'll be in victor's village in no time."

"You think that's what I want?" unprecedented venom seeps into her language.

She catches me off guard and the words are a blow to my stomach.

"Well, yeah," I breathe.

"Sweetheart, all I want is to have you back at my side, I could care less about money or even having a home, I just need you," her passion is genuine.

I kiss her cheek and give her a smile, something I haven't done in years. She lays her rosy hand on my cheek and the tears recede, and she forces a weary smile onto her face. My mother has never looked so tired and I can clearly see the grey bags that hang under her eyes. She is exhausted, emotionally and physically. Still working at the wharf and coming home to an empty house, my mother is a soldier.

"Make me proud," her words are sweet, tearing what little of a heart I have into pieces. She hits me harder than any of the prison guards could try to, and I know that what she really wants deep down in the recesses of her heart is for me to succeed.

And succeed I will.

* * *

**Ula Ermin**

**District 4- Female**

**Courtesy of richards25**

* * *

Shining like diamonds, the waves crash against the white sand at my feet. My toes recoil at the icy blue that cascades over them, and I shiver with delight. The ocean beckons me and I sigh as a give it my answer; not today, today is the Reaping.

The Reaping has always held a grim significance in my mind; my thoughts are mostly clouded of the days before Dory, my sister, volunteered to be in the Hunger Games. I was shocked, we all were, Dory was so bright and talented, and she could swim about a mile underwater. She made it pretty far, into the final eight. She was killed by an axe, to throat; it was a mess of blood. I couldn't watch, my eyes were glued to the screen though and I saw my sister die at the hands of some crazed tribute just wanting to go home.

The waves recede, taking my answer plaintively, washing out to sea. In their flight to leave, a small shell colored a rosy pink is deposited at my feet. It is perfect, completely intact all around with the sharp angles making up the tail. I smile, one moment of joy that leaves my face as quick as it came, and then I'm off for home. My feet drag in the refulgent sand as I cross the dunes sluggishly. I do not want to go home, while my family readies themselves for today's event I chose to spend it at the beach, the only thing that brings me happiness anymore. I can't bring myself to turn the rusty knob to our Oceanside shanty, and my sister Coral does it for me from the inside. She must have seen me coming up the path.

Coral is sixteen, two years younger than me, docile and brainy. Corals hair almost has a pinkish tint to its sunny blonde coloring, hence her name. More of an introvert, Coral spends her time reading and helping my mother sew nets for the wharf my father works at. I love my sister unconditionally, and I don't think I could handle losing a second one. Coral looks so much like Dory; I can't bear to look at her if the memories come up too fast. Quickly, I push them away and brush past Coral to get inside the cottage.

"What's wrong?" Coral asks with genuine care.

"I think you know Coral," I respond with cracks in my voice.

She doesn't reply, but slowly nods, our thinking parallel. Coral gets my moods, her intuitive nature realizing that she doesn't have to say much to make me feel better. I was closest to Dory, if you count my mother out, who didn't speak for about a week afterwards. Coral's eyes meet with mine, the brilliant blue sinking into my feelings like a ship descending into the dark abyss of the oceans. Her gaze is heavy, laced with emotional understanding and secret comfort. Coral almost knows me too well.

Cas slams into my shoulder, not noticing my presence as he bounds down the stairs.

"Watch it sis!" He hollers as he nearly tumbles out the door and out into the sunshine which I had recently abandoned.

My shoulder stings and I whirl around to question Coral about his hurried movements. She answers without me having to ask.

"He wanted to go train some more before the reaping," Coral said in disbelief.

"Which as we all know is a lie, because I saw Petra down at the beach," I laugh back.

My thirteen-year old brother Caspian does do some training, a lot of it actually, but not very much lately. He doesn't think we know, but we do. He's been spending time with this girl from his grade, Petra, and she's always within one-hundred feet of our house for some reason. Caspian would like to think that his little romance is a secret, but we all know.

"I just pray there are no little Caspians running around any time soon," Coral sighed.

"That would be two too many," I chuckle.

Coral helps keep my mood light, but after I reach my room, thoughts of Dory settle back down on me. My mother has laid out a beautiful emerald dress for me, it matches my dark green eyes perfectly. I put my sandy brown hair in a fishtail braid and complete the ensemble with my grandmother's brooch. I slip the shell I found earlier into one of the pockets of the dress and slip on my flats, making my way back down the stairs out to the main room.

Our house is small, divided into three sections. The first is the main room, it has a small television and a couch, with some mats on the floor for Coral, Caspian and I to sit on. The main room also has the front door built into the wall, so it's what you see when you first enter. The second part is the kitchen, which is so small you can't breathe. We eat in the main room, so there is no dining room or anything like that. Then there are two bedrooms. One for my parents and the other one crammed full with two bunk beds. Caspian and Coral are paired and the other one was where Dory and I slept. I gave that bed to Caspian, the haunting reminder being too much for me. Now Coral and I share our own bunk bed, and Caspian thinks it's the coolest thing to have his own.

My father, Triton, is much younger than he looks. He works at the wharfs the make up the main fishing industry of District Four, and sometimes will have to go out to sea as a ship hand. We don't see him every day, so it's hard. He comes home when he can though, and I never see my mother happier. Not since Dory died.

My mother, Sandra, is a woman of tenacity. She makes nets for the fishing company my father works for, and sometimes my siblings and I help her. She makes them at home, working behind our house in a small wooden shack. When she fills a cart with nets, Caspian or I will haul them off to the wharf and collect the money. It's not much, but it helps us get food while my father is away. My mother doesn't give up though, and has worked fiercely since Dory died, her hands never leaving her work. It's difficult for me to console her, to let her know that she can stop. It doesn't always work though.

I am stunning in my gown; I know it when Coral shoots me some flippant look. Her only flaw is her airs, and she is aware of it. Her pearly sundress pales to mine, but she relents, because this is my last year of eligibility. Caspian told her he would meet us at the square, and my father is out at sea, work doesn't stop for the Hunger Games in District Four. My mother appears from her bedroom, tidying her light blue dress and applying the last touches of eye shadow. She turns to Coral and I and gasps.

"My…Ula," she breathes, unaware her daughter could be so striking.

She lays her fingers delicately on my shoulder, as if I were some fragile porcelain ready to break at the slightest breath. She murmurs something under breath and tears well in her eyes. I catch them in their sacs, preventing her make-up from running and force an unwonted smile onto my face.

Coral rolls her eyes jocularly as the three of us depart for the square. My mother's long legs are built for swimming and her strides are great. She is cutting back her normal pace to allow herself to stay with her daughters. We reach the square and she plants a firm grip on my shoulder.

"At least I'll have one," she whispers in dark mirth.

The thought scares me, for some odd reason it calls forth a ghost that I can't pinpoint. The thought leaves me, but it will be conjured in a moment. The past victors of District Four are sitting on stage and the phantom of my thoughts assails me once more. Marlene Tradewind, one of the victors gives me a reassuring smile, and the memory shapes in my mind.

* * *

_Dory, Marlene and I are sitting in the sand, staring up at the morning sun. It's bright rays pierce my eyes and I rest my arm on my brow. Marlene huffs with anger as the same thing happens to her, but instead rises to cast off the glare._

_ "It's almost ten," she pouts._

_ "Patience Mar," Dory giggles, her laughter like honey in the wind. "I know the Games mean a lot to you, but savor this moment before you have to hop on that train to the Capitol." Dory says Capitol like its poison. Dory rises and offers her hand to me, and I take it in thanks. Grains of shining sand fall of our back like snowflakes, and gently brush the ground. We make our way to the square, the smell of salty air on our hair. I make my way to the fourteen-year old section and wave at Dory as she joins the eighteen-year olds. Marlene crosses up to the stage._

_ I know exactly what will happen when Coral is reaped, only twelve years old. My mother's shrieks of desperation can be heard as Coral is nearly dragged to the stage by Peacekeepers, I sway on the balls of my feet, ready to pounce like a cat. Dory beats me though, and she holds her head high and plants a reassuring kiss on both of Coral's cheeks. My mother wraps Coral in her arms and sobs as now her eldest child pushes up to the stages. Dashell Endarye, our district escort, takes Dory's hand and leads her up the stage. Dashell's vibrant blue hair permeates my eyes._

_ When we arrive in the Justice Building, everything is a blur. My father gives Dory reassuring tips and my mother sobs into my shoulders. Dory nods, looking straight into my eyes and before I register her passing of the torch, we are out in the hall, flanked by Peacekeepers. I assume my role, now eldest child, and look back at the mahogany door as it closes on my sister. The last time I'll ever see her. My mother raises her head, the salty tears coating her visage. She looks down at me and smiles, a warped love painted on her mouth. She leans in to me and hugs me, embracing her daughter with a pageant of emotion. She pulls back and stares at me._

_ "At least I'll have one," she says._

* * *

The memory jolts me in my place, and my mother looks concerned.

"Be strong Ula," she offers in an ill-timed condolence.

I am standing with the other eighteen-year old girls, not knowing I am standing in the same exact place as Dory four years ago. I shift my weight, oblivious to the significance of my resting place. Dashell comes out, following the mayor's yearly droning. I tune out the welcomes, sickened to the point of exasperation. My mind is blank, searching for something to think about when the worst thought of all enters like the knife of an assassin in an unsuspecting king's throat.

"Ula Ermin!" Dashell calls.

Like clockwork, the sands of time repeat, and four gasps are definitively heard. District Four is a close knitted district, we all work together to bring the harbors money and prosperity. So, the first gasp is cognizant of the Ermin name, registering the fact that yet another Ermin child is being sent like a lamb, more like a fish, to slaughter at the hands of the capitol, the fishermen. The crowd gasps again when my mother faints, something I don't learn yet. My mother topples backward into the square. And some man catches her thankfully. She does not wake until someone tosses water on her face minutes later so she can bid me goodbye.

The third gasp is from Marlene on the stage, whose eyes flutter like a fish snagged by a hook, and she plops down in her chair to catch her breath. Marlene is my best friend, assuming the role of big sister after Dory died. She and Dory were great friends, the three of us always used to hang out. Marlene didn't let her victory drive her to insanity, steeling herself to fill the hole Dory left behind. She mentored Dory, and now she will mentor me.

The fourth gasp emits from my lips, and I make my way to the stage. Dashell extends a hand and I don't accept it. I stand there, frozen, waiting for the boy to be called.

"Richard Crevan!"

I am alarmed at the fact that the boy has to have chains removed off of him when he is called. Then I realize who he is. The lovely boy who murdered his father and the secretary, just perfect. I'm pretty sure I would pick him last if I were allowed to pick my district partner. He's killed before, twice, so he'll probably gut me like a fish in training.

We are led into the Justice Building and the reaping concludes.

My mother pours into the room, tailed by Coral and Caspian. Caspian is strong and squeezes my hand, our strong wills binding and preventing us from crying. My mother and Coral cry enough for all four of us and after several promises and condolences; they are swept out of the room. Marlene would come see me if she weren't a victor, but she is, so that's all the love I get before I'm carted to my death.

I shove my hands into my dress pockets and feel the small pink shell in between my fingers. I smile, and am pleased that I am bringing a token of the beach with me, keeping the place I call home by my side. I don't know why, but it almost elates me, and I start to think about how if I play it smart, I might actually walk away from this.

I can swim, I am smart, I'm strong, and I've trained all my life. The stars are certainly aligned. That murderer boy may have killed before, but he's unstable, not smart on his feet. That's why he killed the secretary, panic because his plan was foiled. The only way to kill a cat is to corner it, and that's exactly what I'll do.

Carrying my symbol of the sea with me, the grains of sand tumbling in my pocket I feel the slightest hint of courage peer into my heart, and I invite it in. I am humble, whether I die or not, this is my fate, and I know Dory would want me to hold my head high just like she did. I meet with Rip and the Peacekeepers and we are pushed onto the train.

I have a date with destiny, and I certainly won't let him get in the way.


	6. District 5 Reapings- A Little White Lie

**A/N: I know it's been a little while since my last post, but I've been busy with many other things, traveling over Spring Break and the start of a new story. Go check out The Mario Apprentice, it's my profile and new episodes are every weekend! So without further ado here is the District Five Reaping!**

Caramen Fliess

District Five- Male

Courtesy of FlyingTantagella

Bright white lights dance in my head as I teeter backwards and crash to the ground. Stars envelop my view, disguising the rushing blur coming towards me as a beam of messy light. The impact knocks the wind out of me as if someone had dropped a brick on my stomach and blood jumps out of my lips like a cat on its perch. I am thrown like a ragdoll into a tree and the sickening sound of my snapping spine can be heard for miles. The tree cradles me, and softly deposits me to the ground, but not helping to ease the sting of my bones as I make contact. The blur, now slowly taking the shape of a human, towers over me.

"Get up," it hisses.

I can't. I try to awaken any muscle in my body but all of them fail me.

"Pity," the voice snickers.

A heavy foot crashes down on my lungs like iron. I am drowning in my own blood and the pain is indescribable. Black seeps into the edges of vision and I fight to stay alive, clutching to memories of home. I can see my mother's face, warm and comforting. My father's calloused hands and his graceful smile. My sister, Vanitia, calling my name and crying tears laced with sorrow as she stares into my grave. These are the thoughts and faces that replay in my mind like a broken record as the life pours out of my body. One last time my mother's face paints itself in my mental sky and then like that, the pressure is released off of my chest and I fade into black.

I awaken with a start and choke on my tears. Crying out for my mother, I clutch the pillow with a frightened grip. My mother, Lenore, rushes into the room and places a cold towel on my brow. Her reassuring smile and soft pat on my shoulder reminds me that the horror I have just experienced was only a nightmare.

"Another bad dream?" she asks innocently.

"Yeah," I stammer as I gulp down the chilled glass of water she brought along with the towel.

"You know Caramen, all this dreaming is representative of your fears. This is your first year; there are plenty of other names in that bowl. The odds are ever in your favor." She coos.

Twisting the sickening words of the capitol into a calming offering is a specialty of my mother. You could spit on her shoe and she could find a way to thank you for it. Not harboring a grudge or ever casting a mean glance, Lenore Fliess is a woman of benevolence and sincerity. The greatest blessing in my life, I guess alongside going into the Hunger Games, losing my mother is my worst fear.

"I've drawn a bath; the water's a bit colder than normal but do your best to wash up. There'll be a clean shirt for you and some pants when you're done. Your father is down at the Power Plant, and he'll be there until the reaping."

Her words are more like wishes than orders, she never really tells me to do anything. I always listen though; there is nothing to gain by resistance and my mother isn't someone I would want to defy. I carry myself to the washroom, sweat dripping down the sides of my nightshirt from the frenetic contents of my dream. Today is plagued with fear, and I dread the impending walk to the district square with every fiber in my being. I plop down in the wash bucket and hastily scrub the dirt and grime of the soles of my feet and the nooks of my elbow. Although district five's industry is power and electricity, we are very poor. No working lights are in our house and our wash water is drawn from a well out back. My mother doesn't work, her body is too frail, and so the only income we get is from my dad's taxing job shoveling coal at the power plant.

It's a curious process. My father shovels coal, which is the industry of District Twelve. However, twelve only mines the coal, and then they ship it here to District Five. The black bundles of the tiny rock pour into my dad's coat sometimes and when he comes home his face is smudged with the residue. My father is a strong man, incongruous to the delicate stature of my mother. He loves her though; I can see it in his eyes. The way he looks at her, a tender affection, something so beautiful, like a rose in the wind. After my bath I dry myself off with a dingy cloth towel and make my way back to my room with the periwinkle textile wrapped around my waist. My mother, holding true to her word, has laid out a crisp white shirt, ironed. Shirts are only ironed for funerals, and adding a new occasion to the steaming board seems ill-fitting. I slip it on, working it across my pale arms and shrugging out the sides so it fits better. It is not new, it belonged to my father.

I slip on the black pants my mother prepared and fasten the simple ensemble with a black belt. The buckle is a bronzed silver, a unique color that is more akin to the silvery ore than it is to the refined metal. I am complete, to the fullest I can be. My hands start to shake, because when I look in the mirror at my Reaping Day attire, the full effect of the possibility of having my life whisked away from me and sent to day in the bloodiest pageant ever scares me to the edges of death. My curly red hair hangs over my eyebrows, which are thin and arched. My eyes are mismatched, the left one being a pale blue and the right one being a cool slate. The flicker up and down as I study my imperfections. The disarray of freckles, the crook in my thin nose, the cleft in my tiny chin, the emaciated frame of my wiry and small boy figure. I look like a malnourished cat.

"Caramen! We need to go!"

That is not the sweet tone of my mother; it is riddled with shrieking demands and out of place superiority. The ghostlike presence I possess to my older sister Vanitia is brought into light this morning, my pallor and phantasmagoric tendencies illuminated by her forceful drive. I am meek where she is proud. I am humble where she is aloof. I am small, she, in figure, is big. Vanitia was born into the wrong family, and she always has been. She is beautiful, stunning, with her wavy auburn hair and her electric blue eyes. Her nose rests high on her curled and plump lips. Her cheeks are a shade of rose, unaffected by the dank atmosphere of our house. She knows nothing of poverty, although she is surrounded by it. Vanitia is not my sister, she is our tenant.

"Caramen! Are you deaf?"

I succumb to her yells, what will I gain by resistance? I come down the stairs, but slowly, pushing the needles that my sister sits on. Her look is raging with a testy fire, one that I am dancing over on bare feet.

"Mom, tell him to stop his little game and get down here," Vanitia demands.

"Caramen," my mother pleads.

I listen to my mother, and soon we are out the door and into the town square. My mother reassures me that the deposition of my blood into the record books of the capitol will not hurt…too bad. The pinprick is sharp, like getting a splinter, but the pain subsides as a new wave of anxiety crashes into my mind. I know my name isn't in there, and my mother won't let us take tesserae. I count my steps, something to make my mind off of the games, and file into the twelve-year old boy section.

I don't have any friends; I spend my days at home, really doing nothing when I'm not at school. I am alone as I stand amongst the throng of people. All nervous, all so young, waiting to receive the news on which one of them will be the district's next unlucky victim swept away to the Hunger Games.

Our District Mayor, Barnabas Billuxium, is draped in a blue and gold cloak that looks like something a capitol citizen would wear. His attire is always gaudy, and stands out against the colors of District Five. His wispy grey hair hangs loosely from the top and sides of his head and a large and billowy beard drifts in the morning breeze on his chin. After his introductory speech, I am clinging on to every word like they are life preservers and I am lost at sea.

If I believed that Mayor Billuxium was showy, then I don't know how to describe our new district escort. For as long as I can remember, Pauly Klappenmire has been our district escort, but this year a new escort has replaced her. Coated in an olive green dress with what looks like a curtain rod speared through it, our new escort saunters to the podium. Her sharp heels make her feet look perpendicular with the ground and eye lashes as wide as her head extend from her eyes. Her make-up is an aqua blue and he chin is thin and elongated. Long black gloves run up her arms and a hideous saffron umbrella is opened above her. It is not raining.

She taps the microphone with a gloved hand and extends her neck cautiously, like a feeding turtle.

"Welcome District Five," she nearly inaudibly whispers.

"It is time to select a boy and a girl," she speaks with a raspy tone, it sounds as if her voice had been plucked out of her and replaced with someone else's.

Her hand dives into the girls bowl and she removes a simple sheet of white paper, powerful enough to splice a family into pieces.

"Amerilia Hesterfield!" she calls out in her hushed tone.

The girl is pushed onto the stage and tears are running down her face. I can tell that the girl is petrified, but not as petrified as my mother when the unthinkable happens.

"Caramen Fliess!" the escort says.

"No! No! My child, my child! Oh…Caramen!" My mother is screaming. Her pain shoots ripples of emotion throughout the District Five community and my father grabs my mother as she tumbles to the ground in a fit of heartbreak.

"Where are you child," the escort asks, completely unfazed by the breaking down of my sweet, sweet mother.

I slowly make my way up the stairs of the stage and the escort extends a hand.

"Come with me child," her words sound like a snake hissing.

Amerilia and I are whisked into the Justice Building by our escort's long hands and as we are followed by our scarce amount of previous victors, my vision of District Five is clouded in the wasteland of my mind.

My family comes to see me, and I notice peculiar changes in my mother and sister. My father, Ghujar, pats my back reassuringly and tells me that I will prevail, but he knows the lie before it leaves his mouth. He is the first to leave, desperation claiming his heart as he struggles to bear with the fact that his only son has been sent to die. My mother and sister fight for my attention like crows pecking at a calf.

"Caramen!" My mother shrieks, "Be strong my son, be strong and remember I love you," her words are powerful, they are not true to the delicacy of her normal nature. It is Vanitia who stuns me though.

"I just, need you to know that I love you," she mumbles. Tears sting her eyes and they begin to fall like the start of the April rain. The constant trickle becomes a waterfall and I am comforting my sister instead of her comforting me. Vanitia leaves and only I and my mother are left alone.

"We both know you're weak," she spits out.

Her words strike me like a slap, and I look up at her, hurt.

"No my child, the words are not in jest. Look at me, and know, I will help you win this game."

I don't follow her words.

"You're Uncle Romulus works as a game maker," she smiles gently.

I am stunned, for about the fifth or sixth time today. My mother's brother, Romulus Tiabath, is one of the game makers for this year's Hunger Games. The connection spells out the word sponsors and I suddenly feel the first kindling of a spark of hope.

"Just ask, and you will receive," my mother instructs with finality as the Peacekeepers come and wrench her away from me. Her screams are deafening, piercing the drums of my ears and I let loose the most agonizing scream I have ever mustered. My mother has been stolen from me, I need her, I love her. I cannot function without my family, what am I but a simple leaf in the wind? Blowing across a field of grass, hapless and confused, unaware of what lie ahead.

My thoughts are with my Uncle Romulus as I board the train, my head pounds from the crying I've been doing. I can't stop thinking about how I'll never see my family again; I can't possibly have the slightest chance. But I remember, what my mother said, all I have to do is ask.

And ask I will.

Amerilia Hesterfield

District Five- Female

Courtesy of atlaluver

District Five is a nook in a bookshelf between the bordering districts of seven and ten. There is a long a narrow swath between the mountain valleys that eventually tumble out into endless falls of rock and brittle pass. Five seems like a second-thought, engineered for the purpose of providing power to the nation of Panem. However, industry allows for buying and Colyrion Hesterfield didn't hesitate in swooping in on the investments. Pumping out factories like clockwork, the infrastructure of five boomed. Shares of District Ten were requested of the capitol for lavish prices. Hesterfield met the demand, a man born of steel and might; he never backed down on a business venture. Money grew on trees; the era was ripe and fruitful. Five became an empire, for without it, the other districts would plunge into the perpetual darkness. Hesterfield's monopoly was built on electricity, and as Ghujar Fliess shoveled coal into the furnaces that generated the seemingly unending supply of power, Colyrion Hesterfield comfortably sat on his fat stack of cash. Ghujar and Colyrion didn't know one another, nor did the either care for the echelons of the workplace. What mattered to both men, so different in their approach to the metaphysics of life was the constant demand for money. Money beat the skin off of a man's back and money put the glasses on the face of the scrutinizing industrial man. His handkerchief was sewed for money and his brow was wiped in the prospect of money. Ghujar Fliess and Colyrion Hesterfield were no different at all, which is why when they both became fathers, they reaffirmed their sights on what they had worked for in the first place.

Sitting in a room devoted entirely to sitting, Colyrion Hesterfield sat smoking his pipe while he read the District Journal. Viewing the monthly reports on the power stocks with a keen eye, Hesterfield didn't miss a beat. A stack of envelops rested on the dark chestnut table that was situated next to the plush seat and each was labeled with a name. The top one was written with delicate handwriting, intended to spoil and melt the heart. _Amerilia. _It read.

I don't why I bother, because in the first place I don't care. But I drag my feet, no matter how hard they protest, up the gilded stairs to my father's dainty little sitting room. I want to vomit, I really do. My father is obsessed with money, as if he doesn't have enough. Today is my birthday though, and I know he would never buy it for me, but there is the most dazzling sword situated in the window of the local blacksmith and I just have to have it. I have to.

"Daddy," I put my hands behind my back, swing my hips back and forth and pout my bottom lip.

He folds the editorial down, and looks at me through his spectacles. Taking note of my pleading posture and pouting expression his tone fills with concern.

"Yes dear," he whispers in concern.

"It's my birthday, and I was hoping…" before I finish I already know the answer.

"I'm ahead of you," he smiles as he extends the crisp envelope in my direction. I open it slowly, pretending like I'm saving every moment of his birthday present. I see the fat wad of bills and inside I smile, but on the outside I return the teary eyed pouty face and slowly wash away the whine.

'Thank you so much Daddy," I express my gratitude and plant a firm kiss on his cheek. He smiles and kisses me back, placing a tender hand on my shoulder. I skip down the steps, but slowly, letting my hips express my glee instead of my face. He doesn't notice it when I do that, the fakeness, the façade. I reach the front door, at quietly slipping it open I duck out into the morning air.

I am wearing my running shoes, white sneakers with a lime green stripe. They are clouded with the dirt and dust from my training sessions, but I don't mind, I don't have the material mind my father does. My black training shorts blow in the morning breeze, the narrow streets are cobblestoned and they break loose and weather down in the breezes. No one pays attention to what I do, I'm perceptive, and I notice the small things. My father's community is blind. My tight black tank top hugs my body, and my lithe figure is clearly presented like a black leopard's muscular frame. I know exactly where I'm going, to pick up a little birthday present for myself.

I reach the blacksmith's shop and I am horrified when the words CLOSED FOR REAPING are present on the door and windows. There, right there in the middle of the window display sits my sword. It glimmers in the sunlight that penetrates the glass frame and I am stunned that it will not be mine. It was my birthday present, why does the stupid reaping have to be today of all days? On my birthday, seriously?

"Is Daddy's money upset that it has nothing to buy?" a voice calls from behind me.

If anyone else had mentioned how my dad spoils me so, I would lay them out. I'm tough; I train whenever my dad isn't home, which is quite a lot. I always have the possibility of being reaped in the back of my mind and now that I'm sixteen I fully realize the horrors of these games. I have to be prepared, which is why when the voice calls out, I whirl around and directly find my best friend Redrik.

"Why do you sneak up on me like that, you know that I hate that," I chide as Redrik laughs and slinks up to my side.

"Happy Birthday loser," he giggles and messes my hair up. I swat away his hands, but he pulls them back fast, so I lunge forward and catch him off balance. He sweeps his other arm to intercept mine, but swiftly and with precision I dance my arm around his and bring it to his throat.

"I win," I smile with triumph.

"Whatever," he looks dejected, I always beat him, but he never changes the look of disappointment on his face. Suggesting we go train, I follow him to complex. It's not really a complex, because we built it. No one in five really trains, but we know better than to be caught off guard. Redrik removes the bundle of swords from under the grassy hatch that covers them behind a branch and tosses one my way. I catch it at the hilt and the rusting blade has lost its luster. Redrik flashes me a toothy grin and with a quick jump forward he strikes. I raise my blade I cut a block across the path of his weapon. He goes for a speedy sideswipe but I dance out of the way, bringing my sword across his cheek while both his hands are distracted with the heavy parry. The cut isn't deep, but Redrik's adrenaline flares. In a berserk flurry of hacks and slashes, Redrik knocks the sword out of my hand and with a forceful shove I fall back into the dust. I cry out, his power dominating me and within moments I'm flat against the ground with Redrik breathing over my body. We are face to face, inches apart and his hands are on my waist.

"Get off," I order.

"I win," he spits.

He lets me up and I can see the glee in his eyes. I am completely taken aback by the change in his attitude; I've never seen such a rage in him before. I've cut him plenty of times and he's never lashed out like that. Putting that intimate touch on the ending made me nervous too, I mean I know that Redrik likes me, a lot of boys do, but it just seemed odd.

"I guess we should head to the reaping," I mutter.

"Hey, Amerilia, I'm sorry if, that was uncalled for," he apologizes, rubbing the back of his neck.

"It's ok, you won, fair and square," I level my tone.

"I don't know what came over me, it's just, I've never felt that way before, in a fight," he continued.

"Don't sweat it Red, let's just go," I end the conversation and together we walk to the district square. Passing by my friend Hannah's house, she comes out of the front door and waves her arms.

"Hey guys," she breathes hard after catching up to us, "Allison is already there so I thought we could just walk together," Hannah says as we walk. Hannah and Allison are Redrik and I's other friends, but they're mainly my friends. I love Hannah to death but I tolerate Allison. She's just sort of annoying and she moved here from district eight. Hannah befriended her at the school and I've just never really clicked with her.

Reaching the square, Redrik and I go our separate ways and Hannah and I make our way to the sixteen-year old girls. The mayor begins his normal boring speech and I nearly fall asleep. Hannah and I start talking about girl things, and I notice that a boy over in the sixteen-year old section is looking my way. I blow him a kiss and I can see the lust in his eyes. I am sure the morning sun rays make my golden hair radiant and my hazel eyes pierce his dark blue ones. I think his name is Chris, and after he winks I let him know that we can meet up after the reaping. I don't have a boyfriend; I prefer to play the field. When I'm done with Chris, I notice out of the corners of my right eye that Redrik was watching our conversation from across the way and it slightly disturbs me. His eyes are lusty, but not in the way that Chris's were. I don't look his way or let him know I was looking. Redrik is making things between us awkward and I just things to go back to the way where a few hours ago.

Our district escort is new, and her ensemble is ludicrous. She says her name is Rochelle or something. I don't pay attention to her hushed speech, I don't really care. I'm more concerned with getting that sword tomorrow and hooking up with Chris later. I just want this whole Redrik thing to blow over so we can go back to being friends. Hannah screams something in my ear, which brings me out of my little daydream.

"Is there a- Amerilia Hesterfield?"

Oh crap. Really? Any other time would be great, but I just want to satisfy Chris's hunger, talk to Redrik and let him know he will eternally be subjected to the friend zone. When the Peacekeepers start moving towards me, the plan hatches in my head. I already know what I'm going to do.

I break down, I sob and collapse. The anxiety of going into the Games courses through my delicate and sensitive veins and my petite frame can't handle the heavy stress on my shoulders. I make my helpless way to the stage and stand with Rochelle until some little boy is called up. The crying never stops, my face is blood red and I'm just so stunned by the whole ordeal.

The Justice Building swallows us whole and we make our way down the tight corridors into the secluded rooms that will serve as a holding room until the train is prepared. Hazel, one of our mentors, pats my back like it will do me some good and the boy, Caramen, and I are thrown our separate ways. Once inside my room, I hear the door lock and I dry up the tears and cynosure my thoughts. A million thoughts are racing through my mind. I had to react quickly, and I focused on my histrionics and the actual idea that I've been selected for the Hunger Games begins to form in my mind. I am stunned in reality, but it's in a different way. I've been preparing for this, I know what to do, I know how to react. But it was a fallback, readiness for something that would never come. It came.

My father opens the door and in another split second decision I slam it shut with my foot. I scream and pound on the door and shout obscenities so lewd that my father breaks down on the other side of the door. His spoiled little daughter has lost her marbles and he can't bear the thought. The Peacekeepers tell him he must leave and when I hear Redrik and Hannah approaching the Peacekeepers relay the same message.

"Let them in," I demand as I throw open the door. The Peacekeepers in the hallway recognize my apparent sanity after a few moments and they shrug as Redrik and Hannah enter the room.

"God, I never thought…" Redrik is crying. Hannah grabs my hand and squeezes it. She whispers a few encouraging words in my ear but knows that this is a meeting for Redrik and I. She departs with a blown kiss and I can hear her hushed sniffles as she glides down the hall.

"Redrik, I'll be fine, I've got this," I laugh as he wipes his eyes on my shoulder.

"You're good with your sword," he chuckles.

"Yeah, that's it, I'll get a sword," I assure him.

"The cornucopia is dangerous," he reminds.

"I'll get a sword," I repeat with insistence, growing impatient with Redrik's doubt.

I run my fingers up and down the chain that hangs around my neck. My mother's pendant. Redrik knows that annoyance is building in my mind when I do this and he releases his hug on my waist. He kisses my forehead, and before I can say goodbye he is gone.

I study the jade that hangs from the end of the silver chain and I whisper a silent prayer to my mother. She died during my childbirth, and my father gave me the pendant once I became old enough to understand. She's my guardian angel and I know she would want me to do what I'm about to. Confidence is with me, but so is the reminder that these Games never go as they seem. So I, Amerilia Hesterfield, the girl from five, will lose these Hunger Games.

Or so they think.

** These tributes were so much fun to write! The first twelve year old, so sad when those are reaped, and the deceptive beauty Amerilia. Sorry again for the really long wait, but I've just been busy lately. District Six will come much faster than District Five did. Please review, it keeps me going. Happy Hunger Games!**


	7. District 6 Reapings-The Fox and the Hare

**Loot Lewis**

**District Six- Male**

**Courtesy of Dreamgazer86**

* * *

Gnawing on the end of a chicken bone, the rat greedily rips off the tinier bits of meat and swallows them without a thought. Its instinct is to feed and worm its way from nook to cranny to find whatever scraps it can. The rat is hardly ever seen, they are feared though, as the disgusting vermin they are. However, on closer inspection, the rat is much like the depraved. The indigent do not have food, they do not have what others can call a home. The rat is same in this manner; it slinks from alleyway to high rise to find any means of survival. As this particular rat, the one consuming the rotting chicken, finishes its meal, it is discovered. Not discovered in the sense that his identity has been aroused, his ambitions ousted, but where he is. A black boot, the tatters licking the muddy ground, stomps near the rat. Startled, its pink nose twitching in excitement and fear, the rat dashes away.

If you were to ask me if I wished I could have a home, if I could be with my family, the answer would be no. There are some in the community home that cling to the possibility of having a family someday. They play house in the bedrooms. I think it's because their parents died, their parents were subjected to capitol torture or their parents have fallen victim to poverty. However, what separates their wishes from my style is that at the time of their departure from a life of relative comfort, they were still loved. I don't know if I was ever loved. The thought plagues my mind from time to time, but I don't have much time to time. As I walk through this dilapidated building, my weathering boots sinking into the wet ground I think about love. It's something I never understood, until I met Blakely.

I don't love her intimately; there is no hot passion that draws me to her lips. Blakely is my sister, by devotion not blood. How I met Blakely was probably the luckiest day of my life, and there haven't been too many of those. When I was young, my parents abandoned my sister Ebony and I. I don't know why, Ebony told me she was going to tell me when I was old enough, but she never got the chance. Ebony and I were thrown into the life of the street rat, and she swore that she would protect. Dodging peacekeepers left and right, not wanting to be sent to the community home, Ebony and I stole and cheated our very breaths. I have a knack for thievery, something I wish I hadn't been able to discover. We managed, it was tough, but with Ebony by my side, I thought we could make it. I was wrong. When I was ten, without any warning, Ebony was plucked from my life. Reaped, is what some woman in the town square told me. I know what that means now, but then my mind still hadn't come to terms with how cruel the capitol really is. I didn't know what to do; I went off the map, hardly ever coming out to see sunlight. In the end, Ebony never returned and I know why. My sister, the only thing I had left, was murdered by someone as desperate as us, fighting to see their family, because they still had someone left. I only made monthly excursions, sneaking out at night to hunt for scraps in the marketplace or abandoned orchards. It was a night about six months after Ebony's reaping that once again, the life left my body for a few moments.

After a night of purloining the various shopkeepers of their left behind spoils, I was rather content. I was so focused on my loot that I didn't notice the shadowy figures coming my way. All of a sudden, I was knocked flat on my back, the wind stolen from my chest. Holding the bundle of loot high above my head, some sneering jerk winked at me. Laughing to his buddies, he looked down at me again and spit on my face. I don't fight, I thought I was done for, but then Blakely arrived. A small figure, built for speed, came out of nowhere and delivered a swift kick to the groin of the scum ball that held my loot. I couldn't make her out from the ground, but I did know that after a minute or two, I had my loot back. Blakely helped me up and that was when I noticed how bad her condition was.

A zombie, her bones can be clearly seen under her thin white skin. A gaunt face, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks looked back at me. She looked very frail, but by the scuffle I had just witnessed I knew how deceiving her looks were. Stringy black hair came down in tangled knots from her scalp and nearly black eyes looked out at her world. She stuck out a hand, and taking it as invitation for partnership, I shook it.

What I thought would be a simple partnership in order to get by quickly turned into the best thing so far since the day my parents abandoned me. Blakely is fiercely protective of me, and once she sets her mind to something she is determined to accomplish it. She discovered I was oblivious to the dangers of the Hunger Games, and although I knew Ebony had been 'reaped' I couldn't tell her why. Blakely just wanted to protect me, she didn't think it would do me harm, so she decided to keep my knowledge limited. When I turned twelve, the peacekeepers must have assumed me dead, decomposing in the streets somewhere. I shared my loot with Blakely and together we lived in abandoned buildings, dodging peacekeepers and living on whatever we could find. It was before the more recent reaping, when I was fourteen years old, when they found me.

_"Hey, it looks like we've got a little street rat sleeping on our corners. What do you say we teach him a lesson," the peacekeeper grinned from ear to ear, looking down at my sleeping body like a meal. _

I was dragged from our hiding spot, Blakely watched me go, but I motioned for her not to follow. I could see the heartbreak in her eyes, fearing that our days as 'siblings' in our messed up little world were over. I was flogged, my back burned red and the skin fell of in stinging chunks. The red blood cascaded down my sides and trickled to the ground. The beating was supposed to instill some sort of sense of selflessness in me, but it didn't work. I was shipped off to the community home, but I escaped within the first week. I found Blakely on the streets, waiting for me. I wasn't gone for long, but her figure had declined in the short amount of time and I realized that although she was small and fast, she needed my expertise to get by. I don't even know how she managed to survive before we met.

* * *

The day of the reaping isn't different from most. The weather follows the same pattern of the week and the people still rise every morning like they normally do. There is no grim reaper knocking on doors or an angel of death painting the town. Reaping days are unseen; their wings shroud the whole district, covering up our hopes for a few tiny hours that could shift the entire frame of a life, or lives. I've learned that skipping reaping days isn't too good for the back, so Blakely and I make our way down the street to avoid attracting attention again. The shops are closed on reaping days, which makes them the best for stealing. While everyone is worrying over their sons and daughters, and making their way home to pray and love one another for not being reaped or whatever the hell families do, Blakely and I storm the shops. It's not hard when no one is in the square, we can basically take what we want as long as we avoid the detection of the scarce amount of peacekeepers. No one suspects anyone to pull anything on reaping days, which is exactly why we do it. So as Blakely and I make our way down the path, we begin picking out what stores to hit up.

"I could use some new boots," I point to my tattered shoes.

"Alright, well our top priority is food, and blankets. I also want to stock up on medicine, just to be safe," Blakely went down the list. A few months ago, I had cut my foot on a jagged rock and the blood poured out like a waterfall. Blakely freaked out, and the infection set in. It really looked like my foot would need to be amputated, but Blakely had run to town and pleaded with the local pharmacy. It made me so mad, I yelled at her for taking the risk. I know she's older than me, but that doesn't play into anything, we're both on the same level. If anything like that ever happened again, Blakely wanted to make sure we could handle it.

Continuing down the street, we reach the district square. District Six's square is plain, and the stage sits on the threshold of the Justice Building. We are a little late, as the mayor is beginning his speech. The peacekeepers shoot us dirty glares, but they let us in regardless. Blakely hugs me tight before we depart.

"I'll see you in a bit Loot," she promises.

I give her a reassuring smile, never sure of the way these reapings will play out. We split up, and I watch her as she heads to the eighteen-year old girls section. It's her last year eligible and after today we only have to worry about me getting by. Once that's done, we can live the life of thieves forever. The mayor wraps up his boring prelude and our district escort makes his way to the podium. He's dressed in a more simple design than most capitol citizens, wearing a gray suit with a ruffled white shirt underneath. A black bowtie hugs his pudgy neck and dark shades rest on his nose. The only thing that really points him out as a capitol citizen is the neon green faux hawk that rests on his otherwise bald dome, and the intricate tattoo that works its way up his face.

"Good morning District Six, I'm going to keep this short and simple," he cut to the chase. "Out of all of you, one boy and one girl will have the lucky opportunity to represent District Six in this year's Hunger Games!"

No one cheers.

"Alright then," he was already aware of the normal reception, "Let's do the boys first shall we?"

Reaching his hand into the bowl, he dances it over the countless slips. Dipping way down to the bottom, he removes a piece of paper. Walking back to the podium with the paper in hand he unfolds in front of the crowd and reads the name into the microphone.

* * *

"Loot Lewis!"

My initial reaction is that I'm dreaming, but when the Peacekeepers start and I pinch myself I realize that I'm not. It can't be me; Blakely and I are raiding the square this afternoon. I'm frozen and since no one knows my name, the peacekeepers aren't given any clues as to who they are looking for. I finally make some giveaway movement, and they swoop down like harpies. Grabbing my arms they drag me up to the stage, my feet making trails in the dirt. The shock has claimed me; I don't even know what to do. I don't cry, I don't make a sound, I am stunned.

Our district escort's name is Tiger, because he tells me that when I get up on stage. He smiles at me, I don't know what he's trying to do but it unnerves me. Our previous victors, I don't know their names, look at me pitifully, as if they already know I'm going to lose. Six doesn't win much, and when they do it's not because of someone with my scrawny build. My black hair is getting in my eyes and I strain to find Blakely in the crowd. There she is, and I can see the silent tears rolling down her pallid face. She nods at me, and I understand. She won't come and see me in the Justice Building, she can't. I swallow the truth; it would be too risky if they knew she had connections with me. The peacekeepers don't know my name, but they know my face. If they knew that Blakely was a street rat too, I don't know what they would do to her.

In all my thoughts I don't hear the name of the girl who is reaped, but it's not Blakely. Everyone down in the crowds look up at us with somber eyes, I don't know why they are grieving for me, but I think it's because they know that soon, I'll be joining the ranks of Ebony. The only thing I have to remember her by is the small silver locket she gave to me before her games. It's in my pocket; I don't wear it because I don't want anyone to take it from me. Not even Blakely knows about it. We could sell it for some serious coin, but I'm not willing to sever my memories for money.

The peacekeepers are about to take me to the holding room but I speak up,

"No one is coming," I say.

The two men exchange weird looks and shrug, they lead me to the train instead, and whoever the girl is, she is led away. I board the train, my mind clouded with thoughts of Ebony and Blakely. I wonder how Ebony felt when she stepped onto this train five years ago, was she sad or was she happy to leave the life of the poor. I don't find that out, but I know one thing is certain. I have to win for Blakely, she can't survive without me. She can scavenge and steal but not as good as I can. If I die, Blakely will go with me.

These are the thoughts that cloud my mind as I enter the train, my dirt and grime leaving specks of black on the floor. I hear the girl boarding as well and after a few moments the train chugs away. And then in that moment I learn how Ebony must have felt, leaving me behind while she rode to her death. It's the same exact feeling I have in leaving Blakely behind, like she won't survive, there is no one to save her. Ebony thought that way, but I was saved, I survived. I realize that there is always hope, and instead of mourning my departure I smile, because I know that no matter what, Blakely will survive.

* * *

**Aston Jeffries**

**District Six- Female**

**Courtesy of Saltey**

* * *

Legend tells, in the days of the rebellion, long before I was even a thought conceptualized in the brains of my mother and father, that District Six was heavily bombed. As punishment for the outbreak of rebellious seeds in our little garden of thought, the sky bled from the cuts the airplanes ripped in its robin's egg skin. The bombs looked like the seeds of a watermelon, small and black, zipping through the stratosphere and tumbling down in their free fall. I do not know what it was like, but legend tells that on that day, the screams of the broken rang in your ears forever.

Being a district focused on the construction and destruction of transportation, the industry was crippled beyond repair post-bombing. The glimmer of hope lodged itself in the eyes of the foolish, because if you really looked at it, it was hopeless. Our economy bled from its throat, something we still haven't recovered from. However, from time to time an individual will come along who views the horrible explosions of district six not as a day to be remembered by weeping and grave-tending, but as a business adventure. One such individual was my grandfather, Archibald Aston Jeffries. Archibald was supposedly the man who rebuilt most of the damaged infrastructure and sequestered the finances to realms undiscovered by those who used to manipulate the aftermath of the bombings for purposes that didn't align with pure profit. It worked, because I've seen it work. The monorails are running for the most part and the factories are pumping out train tracks and automobiles for the comfort of the capitol.

However, despite his success, on the day after the reopening of Platform 34, the first train station to be shelled, my grandmother Verna Jeffries died of lung failure. My grandfather, terribly stricken with the loss went insane and lost the fortunes he had been compiling after the events of the war. Finally, ending the torment of being separated from his wife, by grandfather left my father a single garage to build trains with. My father, abandoning this wish much like his father abandoned, turned to the race track.

District Six has a marvelous collection of motorcycles that run the dirt courses of the tracks outside the main hub of town. Leaping over trenches and kicking up foul dust in their wake, these babies have got some kick. My dad loves them, and he spent his days fixing up the bikes of those who were rich enough to afford them. My dad became somewhat of a bike mogul, all the bikers came to him to get their fix up and refuel their rides. That all changed when one day, operating on the underside of a motorcycle, the structure collapsed and crushed his legs. Wheelchair bound permanently, my father's dreams of building the motorcycle empire he had imagined were cut short, much like the life of my grandmother and the fortunes of my grandfather.

* * *

As his only child, my father devoted himself to molding his girl into the bike-building champion he had so wanted in himself. So now, on this morning before I play Revolution Roulette with the capitol, I sit on the ground of the cold concrete floor of the garage and work my calloused hands over the metalworking. Shaping the ends of the rod with my own wrench, I grimace as the nut on the mainframe stays tightly lodged in its place. Giving an extra dose of oomph, I pry the fixture free and am able to oil the rusting piece. Wiping the band of sweat off of my brow, I can hear the spindles of my father's wheelchair groan as he moves himself into the garage. Leaving a black smudge on my forehead and flipping my gloves over my shoulder, I high-five him as he wheels up.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

"Umm…," I begin, not sure whether he was talking about me or the bike.

"The bike sweetheart," he mumbles, "I know you're not ready," reaching up from his handicapped position, he wipes my forehead with his thumb. The black smudge rubs off onto his fingers and he smiles.

"The shower is running for you, I'll meet you by the door," he says as I walk into the house, retracing the footsteps I laid out on my way to the garage earlier this morning. Reaching the bathroom, I strip my working clothes. The gray jumpsuit falls to the floor, with it my tool belt and wrench. Wearing some blue shorts that only reach my mid-thigh and a white tank underneath, I take those off as well and remove the rest of the clothing. Stepping into the shower, the water is warm, something I pleasure and savor. Father must have drawn the warm water this morning, something to savor in case the worst happens. By black, cropped hair is short on my neck and it plasters to my darkly tanned skin as I lather and rinse the grime off of my body. After a few minutes, I turn the steaming knob and step out of the shower. I'm not one to spend much time getting ready; there are more important things to attend to.

Stepping out of the shower and wrapping the grey cloth towel about my waist, I find what my family designates as "reaping clothes" laying on my bed. A simple blue dress, with a lace band around the waist to tie it in place greets me. Simplicity at its finest, I slip it on, and looking in the mirror am actually pleased to see myself in a dress for once. I know the occasion that permits my hidden beauty is a gruesome one, but I can't help but smile.

Passing by my mother as I head into the kitchen, her head is busily bent over a pile of papers and her fingers are punching away at a small calculator. Sweat is on her brow, something I don't normally see. Concern sneaks into my tone and I say, "What's the matter mom?"

Startled, she didn't even know I was there; she raises her head quickly and studies me in my dress for a moment.

"You look nice," she states dryly.

I take her compliment as a method of dodging my question and I retire my battle before I fight it. I shove a few pastries that are out on the counter into my mouth and noticing that a few hours still remain before the reaping, I tell my mother goodbye and slip out into the morning sun. I reach a small field, delicate grass crying under its cumbersome load of morning dew. I run my fingers through my hair, the blue dress sways around me. I am waiting; I guess for my friends, I don't really know who. Resting against a wooden fence pole, I see them round the corner, laughing.

* * *

It always seems criminal to me, to laugh on the morning of a reaping. We do every time though. We can't help it. My friends and I, though we may not have the best of lives or roll in the filthy wealth of the capitol, make it work. It helps that they're all guys.

Bray, Trayton, and Apollo, each one possessing a close spot in my heart. Bray reaches me first, he always does. Knuckle-pounding me and shooting me a toothy smile, he says, "Hey Aston."

"Hey Bray," I reply.

"Wow guys, such liveliness," Apollo chortles. I shove him, and he whistles back, looking my dress up and down. Trayton shoves him in return, and soon we're all running about the field, trying to catch whoever we can. My dress doesn't tear or dirty, some sacred part of me doesn't work to keep it pristine but it manages anyhow. Before we even started, we are lying in the grass breath loud and savored.

"I guess it's time," Trayton breaks the mood we had been trying to preserve.

Bray helps me up, tenderness in his grip. I hate when he treats me like a girl, like I'm not a part of the group. I shy away from his hand and he scowls. Bray puts on the older brother charade from time to time, but recently I've been thinking there's something more in his glances at me. The four of us walk side-by-side and reach the square, the fear starting to settle in our bones. The chances are slim, slimmer than anything. But still, we crouch in the corners, all of us, and pray we are not picked. The Peacekeeper pricks my blood sample and waves me over to the seventeen-year old girl section. Trayton and Apollo shoulder each other over to the seventeen-year old boys section, but Bray lingers. The look in his eyes is protective, something I don't like.

I stare at him for quite some time, passing over the mayor's introductory speech and Tiger's boring soliloquy. His eyes bat over the crowd, the capitol flare injecting the common horror in all of us. I continue to look at Bray though, who is watching the escort move carefully across the stage in an expression of capitol love. The Hunger Games are a spectacle there, whereas here, they are a death sentence.

"Loot Lewis!"

I wasn't even paying attention, but the first reaped draws my gaze back in. A twelve-year old, my heart sinks. He is so small, so frail, so unfit and ill-prepared for the Hunger Games. My insides moan at the prospect of such a young soldier being sent to battle for District Six.

"Now for the ladies," Tiger tries to make his presentation cute.

Diving into the bowl, his powder pink fingers run over almost every single paper. Snatching one up in a dramatic fashion, he reads the name once he brings the open sheet to his eyes.

"Aston Jeffries!"

The sensation is funny almost. It's like when your parents say, "If you do that again, you're grounded." You do it again anyway, and you don't expect the repercussion to follow because it never does. Then one day, "Wham!" A brick soars into your stomach and the wind inside of you leaves faster than a flickering flame. Hysteria creeps up your nervous system and your brain can't comprehend the situation.

"Aston Jeffries!"

I can't describe feeling helpless. Perhaps if you were a field hare, heart palpitating in haste as you try your best to escape the hungry fox behind you. Your leg snaps, the teeth of your pursuer clamps down hard. Floundering in the wake of the own dust you kicked up, your eyes glaze over with absolute and impenetrable fear. The fox has caught you, and your own crimson blood trickles down your neck and in that instant you know there is nothing you can do.

"Where is Aston Jeffries?"

I fidget a dead giveaway as to who I am. They surround me, like a flock of vultures ready to pick the lingering meat off my bones. Arms, strong and forced grab my shoulders and cart me up to the stage like a lamb to slaughter.

"Ladies and gentleman of District Six, I give you your tributes for the 49th annual Hunger Games!"

I am in a room, my mind is a haze. The past ten minutes have been a blur. I think that's my father, and my mother. They are saying something. I nod. Someone hugs me tightly, they tell me to never give up. I nod. My mother, I think, plants a kiss on my cheek and she lets out a scream as the Peacekeeper drags her away. I am on the verge of letting the hysteria take my sense as its victim, when they walk in.

Apollo hugs me first, tells me I'm strong. Trayton follows suit, the two gab about how I can win this, I'm the toughest girl they've ever met. I nod once more, and that does it. The first tear, shaped like half a heart, rolls down my cheek and past my neck. Bray wipes it off my neck and orders Apollo and Trayton out of the room. They leave, obviously understanding his mission.

* * *

"Aston," he begins.

I look up, wondering what he will say to comfort me, nothing will work.

"I love you."

You have got to be kidding me.

"Now!" I blurt out, almost in a scream. "Now you want to love me?" It is sudden, but I deliver a left hook to the side of his face. He cries out, thinking his mid-crisis bombshell would go over smoothly.

"Aston, what's wrong with you?" he innocently cries.

"What is wrong with me? I've been reaped for the Hunger Games and you decide to confess your feelings for me now? What is wrong with you Bray?"

My words sting, his plan crumbles and he hangs his bruised head in defeat. But I do not relent.

"I can't believe this."

My finality is stunning to him, he must have pictured me being reaped would make me fight for him or something along those lines in the arena. He leaves, and I cry. My tears roll down my face as I sob and plea for things to go back to the way they were when I looked at my reflection this morning. My dress was so beautiful, I was so beautiful.

If only I had known.

**Wow. Writing these two was probably the most emotional chapter yet for me. Let me know what you think, as we make the halfway mark in our reapings! I know, this is taking a while, and excuse my long pauses but I just want to make these good. Seven is up next, and a pair of very interesting tributes are to come…Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor!**


	8. District 7 Reapings- To Change Your Fate

**A/N: Ok so, I've met a dilemma. By this point, every reading this chapter should have already read the previous chapters (otherwise that would make no sense…) so everyone should have read the prologue. I was intending on expanding the story of Dolora Prewitt and her son Matthew, along with the mysterious circumstances surrounding Zios, his plans and the Juggernaut. I started writing it (intending to make it this chapter instead of the District Seven reapings), but I felt like that coupled with the 24 tribute perspectives and then the capitol parts, would just be too much. I want to keep as much connection to the tributes once we reach the games as possible, so if you think I should expound upon Dolora and her struggles as a gamemaker, then leave me an answer in a quick review. Now that that's out of the way, let us commence with…The District Seven Reapings!**

* * *

**Revolc Undercity**

**District Seven- Male**

**Courtesy of hgwriter123**

* * *

"_Zzsshhh! Chyuak!"_ The buzzing sound of the axe cutting through the air as it turns along its many rotations dies out with the definitive groan the wooden target gives as the steel makes contact. The axe collided with the middle ring, dead center, and I'm rather pleased with the throw. Ripping the weapon from its resting place in the target, I slip it into the scabbard that hangs from my belt and make my way up the rotting stairs that lead to the side door of our house. Exhausted from my morning training, I pick up the bow I left resting on the corner of the porch, and swing it over my back. I open the door, and before I even have time to take my weapons to my room, something slams into my gut.

Groaning in pain, I stumble backwards and for a moment I am completely disoriented. I could feel the punch make direct contact with my abdominals and although it didn't knock me down, my body is desperately trying to cling onto any remaining oxygen in my lungs. I put my arms up, ready to deflect the next blow, but a sweeping kick knocks me out from under my feet and my head slams into the wooden floorboards that seem to rise up to meet me.

My vision blurred, I can barely make out my attacker, and try to muster a sigh when I do.

"Get up," the deep voice hisses and spit splatters across my face. Enraged, I leap to my feet, knowing I won't let him beat me this time.

"You think they won't surprise you in the arena?" My combatant blocks my punches and grabs me at my waist, swinging me around to the open part of the house. He charges forward, and at the last second, I bring my knee up and grab his head. Forcing it down into the plate of my knee cap, I can hear the pain in his breath as he smacks down to the floor. Jumping to the side, knocking into a table as I do, I shove one boot in between his crotch and lean down and wrap my hands around his throat.

He spits on my face again.

"Don't use tactics like that," he scolds, "There's no honor in them."

"You think they care about honor in the arena?" I hiss.

"They don't," a voice startles us both, and I let go of my opponent's neck. Releasing my boot from its place between my legs, I step back to allow my brother, Rocky, to come between us.

"Lowle, get up," My eldest brother Rocky commands. Lowle, unhurt save a few scrapes and the growing wound on his forehead from my knee, obeys and in a moment all three of us are standing side by side.

"You two need to wash up, Mom's got breakfast on the stove and I think you've trained enough. That was a pretty good spar, but Lowle you need to work on the mental aspects of the fight as well. You can't just push your way through a fight; you have to predict, accurately, what your opponent will do next. That's why Rev got the best of you," he explains. Smiling, I feel good about Rocky said to Lowle, how I got the best of him.

"Wipe that smile off your face dork," Rocky scowls. I give him an uneasy look, and then he bursts into laughter. Rocky's laughter is like an entire celebration wrapped in one moment. It's so booming, but the way the corners of his mouth creep up on the edges of his nose and the way he throws back his head, making his beard poke out and his shoulder puff up. His laugh is a part of him, and I think it's one of the things I would miss most if I were ever reaped. His laughter eases the tension Lowle and I were feeling and in a moment all three of us are laughing wildly, the house seems to shake from our combined mirth.

Lowle makes his way up the old stairs that creak and whine underneath his footfalls. Still laughing to himself over just about nothing, Lowle rounds the corner of the stairwell and is soon erased from sight. Rocky turns to me, his eyes gleaming with the accents of his robust heart and tender soul altogether.

"I saw those throws this morning; they were on point Rev," he lauds.

"Thanks…" I begin but in his panegyric he cuts me off,

"You could kill you know."

The comment startles me. It's something I think about often, but for someone to say it to me brings to a different level. Someone is aware of my skill, and my own brother believes I have it in me to take a life. The thought is ghastly, but comforting, my stomach begins to feel weird, and I sense one of Rocky's recollections from the arena coming on.

My brother is Rockford Danforth Undercity, the only living victor from District Seven. There was another, Elm, but she died of pneumonia last winter. When he was reaped, my mother fainted, and she slipped into some sort of emotional coma. I didn't think it was possible for grief to be able to kill someone, but my mother almost died from her longing for Rocky. She didn't wake up until about three days into the Games, and when she did, the most blessed moment of my life so far occurred, I told her Rocky was still alive.

We watched, my mother, Lowle, and I, every single minute. We barely slept, our hearts wouldn't allow it. We witnessed Rocky dash through copses and mountain sides and every terrain possible. The arena that year was supposed to represent the world long ago. Deserts, and woods, and plains covered in snow were just a few of the types of conditions that were thrown at the tributes. Tributes dehydrated in the fiery sands of the deserts and froze to death in the snow. I think ten alone were killed by the arena itself. Eight died in the bloodbath, and only six were left to battle it out.

Rocky had formed a coalition with a small girl, Chesiree, who was from Five. He was strong and she was smart, and together they were able to infiltrate the career camp and pick off the remaining living. It came down to three of them, Chesiree, Rocky, and the boy from District One. Well, the boy from One slit Chesiree's throat while she slept and her dying scream gave Rocky just enough time to sink his axe right in the middle of his attacker's head. Rocky wept and wailed over Chesiree's death, babbling about how he was protecting her, ensuring she would survive. They dragged him onto the hovercraft that came to retrieve him, his legs kicking and screaming the whole time.

When he returned, my mother's spirit was revitalized. She couldn't believe her eldest son had returned to her, and the man of the house was restored. My father wasn't there; he hadn't been the entire time. When I was seven years old, my father died. It was a forest accident; apparently he had been down at the lumber mill and standing in the shadow of the oak as it crashed to the ground. There wasn't even anything to bury, my mother collapsed into her milky eyed trance and was finally coaxed out when Rocky came home.

We don't live in Victor's Village, because Rocky doesn't believe he's a victor. Chesiree was a winner; well that's what he says. I don't mind not living in Victor's Village, not having to deal with the hassle of moving everything suits me fine. Besides, I think my mother feels connected to this place, in some way or form, it reminds her of dad.

Drawn from my thoughts like a dog called from a scent, Rocky is spinning a tale of the arena. I don't want to listen, not today, not on the day that Lowle and I are still up for reaping. Lowle is eighteen, and after today the only one left to make it through will be me. Then mom will have all her boys with her, this time for good. I am glad when Lowle descends the steps, fresh clothes on and hair combed. Rocky is already dressed, so the two of them cross to the kitchen while I go upstairs to wash.

Cramming my body in the wash bucket is tough now that I'm sixteen years old. My legs stick out and my body is arched like a spooked cat. The grime comes off easy and quick, making the water I'm sitting in black and sudsy. Washing every corner of my body, I am satisfied with my work and clamber out of the basin. Drying off my hair I work that towel down my neck and across my stubbly face. Blond hair creeps under my chin and the beginnings of a beard the same color work around the sides of my face. The light color accents my sea green eyes, and looking at my naked reflection in the dingy mirror, I notice I'm not that bad looking.

My body is toned, youthful abs stand out against me refined pelvis. My arms are long and muscular, built for working in the lumber yard and shoveling chips. My legs are hard and their length makes me stand taller than Lowle. Finishing my job of drying, I make my way to my room.

My room is basically a reflection of me. The head of a deer I killed is hung my room, the left removed, because that's where the arrow lodged in. The various skins and pelts of foxes, badgers, and even a coyote hang on one wall. It's illegal to possess trophy kills, hunting is strictly forbidden unless you're a tanner or a salesman. The table my father built is littered with weapons, and I place my bow and axe on it with care. I look in my small closet for something to wear to the reaping and settle on my tan cargo pants and an old camouflage shirt. I lace up my boots with fresh socks on my feet and comb my hair until it all goes one way. After that, I shake it until it falls in strands across my forehead and looks perfect. My mother says she doesn't understand why I comb my hair if I'm just going to shake it in the end, but I tell her it's part of the process.

Coming downstairs I can smell the wafting scent of my pork and gravy. My brothers are already seated around the table and my mother, Melanie, is dishing out the helpings.

"Good morning sweetheart," she murmurs lovingly as she plants a kiss on my cheek, skillet in her hand and fork in the other. Dumping a generous portion of the pork and gravy on my plate, Lowle cries in protest.

"Why does he get more?" He whines in a babyish voice.

"Because he's a growing boy," Rocky mimics my mother's nagging tone and I stifle a laugh. She shoots me a look of softened disdain, not really made, and I smile at her. She smiles too, but I can see the wrinkles on her forehead and the crow's feet beginning to form around the edges of her eyes. My mother is aging, and so are we I guess.

"Goodness! The reaping is in twenty minutes! Lowle you were supposed to let me know sweetie!" My mother chides and Lowle replies,

"I was busy."

"Busy with fighting your brother? Put those dishes in the bin and I'll take them to the basin after we get back. Rockford honey, make a note to go to the butcher's after the reaping, I want tenderloin for Lowle tonight, this is his last reaping," her orders are heard and she looks at me tenderly, "Then we just have to worry about you," she whispers.

We make our way to the square, and I see my friend Howle. I run up to him, and we're basically wearing the same thing, except he's got his ripped blue jeans on instead. He slaps my hand in welcoming, and we embrace each other with a pat on the back that recoils off of our shake. Smiling, he runs a hand through his hair and lets out an exasperated breath.

"Reaping today," he says.

"Really?" I use a stupid voice to accompany my sarcasm. He shoves me, and laughing we catch up to my family, who have now been accompanied by Howle's mother and father, Max and Holly.

Howle has been my best friend since I can remember, he's sixteen like me, and we go hunting all the time together. Dodging peacekeepers and trading our kills in for money or getting the tanner to make the best ones into trophies, we live off of District Seven. The lush forests are a playing ground to us and we both excel with axes and bows. We train together all the time, usually with my brothers. Our training serves dual purposes, one is for the Hunger Games but since District Seven's economy relies on strength, we do it to stay fit as well.

Howle and I are talking while our party is on its way to the square. Rocky breaks off, kissing my mother goodbye and heading to the Justice Building. It's sad, because he'll be gone for the duration of the games, training whichever kids get reaped. He tussles my hair, much to my annoyance since it was perfect, and hugs Lowle. Shooting me a smile, he departs, and I watch him go.

"So, you and Amy…you guys?" Howle proposes the question.

"Shit dude!" I curse and Howle looks up at me in surprise.

"I told Amy I would walk with her to the square! What time is it?" My words are quick.

"Ugh, fifteen minutes until the reaping, she probably hasn't left yet," Howle answers, confused at my outburst.

"Alright, tell your parents I said hey and save a spot for me," I tell him and he nods.

"Hey mom! I'm going to get Amy!" I shout and run off before she can reply.

My boots tear up the ground I leave behind, the heavy footfalls banging against the dirt path. My hair is bouncing up and down, but I don't care. Amy, my girlfriend, lives close to the square, so I reach her house in a minute and to my delight can see her through the window. I smooth my hair and put my hands in my pockets, acting like I just strolled up. The door swings open in a flurry, and Amy runs out, jumping onto me with her feet wrapped around my waist.

"Morning beautiful," I coo as I kiss her small wet lips.

"Hey handsome," she whispers back and put her down and play with her hair. She swats it away,

"Rev, I did my hair for the reaping," she pouts and I let go of her sparkling auburn hair. Her freckles are all visible in the morning light and she flashes her pearly white teeth at me.

"Ready to go?" I ask. She nods and hand in hand we stroll to the square.

"I'll see you when it's over," I say firmly, trying to rid her of her anxiety. The peacekeeper gives us an impatient stare as she waits for Amy to step forward, but instead she faces me.

"What if they call my name?" she asks hurriedly.

"They won't," I assure her, unsure of whether or not my statement is true. I give her a quick hug and a kiss and she scoots over to the peacekeeper, stealing a look at me one last time, I blow her a kiss and she smiles, making her way to the sixteen-year old girl section. Watching her go, I forget what I'm supposed to be doing and snap back into reality when a Peacekeeper nudges me.

"You better go in boy," he tries to sound menacing, but I know he's just doing his job.

I meet up with Howle and he has a stupid smile on his face.

"What's up?" I ask him, referring to his cheesy grin.

"Lowle told me," he shoves me, "You're supposed to tell me everything!" His anger is a charade, and after a moment of pondering I say,

"Oh, that."

"Yeah that, what was it like bro?" Howle is looking for details.

"Um, nice, I guess," I sound completely vague, not giving him what he wants.

"You banged Amy Ross and you're not gonna give me any details?" Howle raises an eyebrow.

I laugh and put my hands in pockets, "I was gonna tell you, Lowle just can't keep his damn mouth shut."

"Well, you gotta fill me in later, cause here's the mayor," Howle directs my attention to Mayor Thornebark.

Mayor Thornebark is a short and stout man, he's wispy grey beard covers his face entirely and his lips can only be seen when he talks. He delivers his speech, speaking of the Dark Days and the Rebellion and everything we did to deserve this and all the while I can see Rocky sitting on stage, his black eyes focused completely on the mayor. Rocky acts like the games don't bother him, but when the reapings roll around, I can see the painful nostalgia building up in his eyes.

"Now let's give a big welcome to our district escort, Alfie Thoreau!" Thornebark booms and a young man emerges from the Justice Building, dressed like he's at some party. Alfie's suit is colored mahogany from the top down and his shoes are a rough red leather. Rings adorn almost every finger and his skin is powdered ghost white. The styles of the capitol are weird.

"The time has come to…blah blah blah," I tune out Alfie and study the treetops surrounding us. Judging which ones I can climb and which ones I can't my attention is commanded when Alfie approaches the girls bowl.

"Let's see," he begins, digging around until the name of the tribute is found amongst the sea of paper,

"Maple Starr!"

I don't know her, but I can a small girl walk onto stage, absolutely terrified. She trembles in fear of Alfie, and sobs emit from her gaping mouth. She doesn't crumble, but the ugly tears stream down her face as Alfie proceeds to the next bowl. The screams of Maple's mother and father drown out Alfie's talking and he looks annoyed as he reads out the boy's name.

"Oh…," Alfie begins and no one is certain what's happening. The escort looks at my brother, and that's when I pick up on the situation. That slip of paper he's holding, has either my name of Lowle's on it.

"L-Lowle Un-Undercity," Alfie stammers into the microphone.

The crowd gasps in one fell moment, and I find Amy's panicked face in the crowd. My eyes must have a glint in them, because she mouths the word "no" as the though formulates in my head. My mother, screaming in the dust behind the rows of children, is sobbing for another child, taken by the horrors of the Hunger Games. She was going to go to the butcher to pick up tenderloin for Lowle, and then we would just have to worry about me. I know, in that instant, that if Lowle went in, I could still possibly be taken.

As Lowle makes his way up the stage I shout.

"Stop! Stop!" Everyone looks at me like I'm wild and I dart out into the dirt path up to the stage. The Peacekeepers scramble for me, but I ward them off with my words.

"I volunteer!"

Another collective gasp rises from the crowd and Lowle looks at me in shock. He shakes his head, but I whisper my thoughts in his ear, and he knows its true. Our chances of my mother's sanity are higher this way. He will be taken out of the bowl, Rocky will return after the games, and I won't have to be in danger for two more years. Lowle shakes my hand, love and pride seeping through his grip and then he descends the stairs.

Men grab my mother, stabilize her and help her to her feet. I can see Howle's and Amy's faces in the crowd, and I smile at them. I'm confident that I will return.

Inside the Justice Building, Amy sees me first.

"I told you not to do it," she scolds, her eyes laced with tears. I wipe them off and hug her tight,

"I'll be back," I promise.

"What if you're not?" she sobs.

"I will be."

She smiles, feeding off my confidence. She kisses me one last time, and with that she is replaced by Howle.

"Guess I'll have to bang Amy myself to figure it out," he jokes.

"I swear to God Howle, I will win these games just to beat the shit out of you," I threaten.

Breaking into laughter, Howle seems to possess no worry for me.

"You need a plan bro, get in with the careers, they'll want you. You're strong and smart, if you pose a threat they'll kill you quick, but if you join them you've got it in the bag," he analyzes the situation for me. Taking his advice I realize it's actually not a bad plan and give him a hug before he is in turn replaced with my family.

Rocky isn't there, I'll see him on the train, but Lowle and my mother embrace me and silently my mother weeps into our chests.

"Thank you," she says as she looks up at me. "I know why you did it, I just…I can't lose you son," she states between whimpers.

"You've got this," Lowle tries to motivate me halfheartedly.

My mother fishes something out of her pocket, a pin, shaped like an axe. It's just a generic one the lumber yard uses to identify its workers, but it belonged to my father, salvaged after the accident.

"Take it," she pleads, handing me her closest link to her deceased love.

"Mom…"

"Take it."

She holds me tight and I smile at Lowle over her shoulder. The peacekeeper knocks on the door and they don't look back as they go, too torn to refill the haunting thought. I am taken from my room and without being dragged by a peacekeeper I get on the train with a smile on my face.

My brother has won this game, and he's my coach. He's been my coach my entire life, he taught me how to throw axes and hunt for game. I finger the axe pin in my hand, and clasp it to my shirt. My outfit is completely District Seven, the camouflage, the cargo pants, the rough boots. Dirt from the streets still clings to my boots and I smile as I notice that. Every inch of me is from my home, and in my head the thought crosses my mind, bolstered by confidence and practicality.

It is my home I carry with me as the train readies itself to depart, and it is the home I will return to.

* * *

**Maple Starr**

**District Seven- Female**

**Courtesy of hgwriter123**

* * *

Stinging pain courses through my arm as it collides with the rough texture of the tree bark. I grit my teeth as my body grinds against the tall pine and then the wind catches in my stomach as I grab onto a lone branch. Swinging myself over the bristly wood, I perch on the branch and regain my senses. The life was knocked out of my breath for a moment, but I call it back to me and scan the horizon. Thrush chirp in the trees and chipmunks flick their tails in silent warning to their family. A pheasant, sleek and mottled with dapples of brown and green clucks its call over the morning air and a young vole is poking its head out of its burrow. All these things I notice and more, my eyes are keen to their surroundings in this sylvan world, my hideaway and my home.

"Hey Maple! The reaping is soon, come on down and let's get something to eat!" Lotte calls from underneath me. I can hear the worry in her voice; Lotte is absolutely petrified for our first reaping. I can't say I'm not, because I am. For the past twelve years I have been safe and sound in my mother's arms, completely out of range from the capitol's snare. But now, now I have to face the possibility of being snagged like a hare and traipsed to the capitol for a spectacle of blood and might. Thoughts such as these have been on my mind as of late, and there's nothing more that I want than for this reaping to end. I want to know I'll be home, safe again.

I climb down, disgruntled with Lotte's annoying pleas. She pushes a smile onto her face, and rubs her wrists, obviously terrified. The reaping is in less than two hours and my mother is calling my name from the window sill of our little forest hut. It barely holds the family, my mother and father and my sisters, Johanna and Vel, and my brother Benny, plus me. The six of us are cramped beyond belief, but I like it. Tight spaces are my favorite places; being wedged between the crisscross branches of a tree and concealed by compressing foliage is my stronghold. If I'm not in the house, I'm in a tree, always scoping out what I can see.

Of course, I never pursue what I see, only observe it. If Benny were like me, he could hunt down the denizens of the underbrush and the citizens of the treetops. We could have a little extra food to eat and a bit to sell, but Benny is a coward. I don't say it in spite of his character, it's just the truth. If I were a boy, I would chase after the ferrets and rabbits and partridges and goldfinches that populate the pines. Either slingshot or dagger would do the trick. A bow would be perfect, but we don't have one. But if I were a boy, I could probably get one, and learn.

I'm resourceful, I know what to use and when. People like Lotte and Benny like to have things done for them. Deadlines set and expeditions planned and decisions made for them. I on the other hand make the deadlines, plan the expeditions and decide everything. I'm my own manager, because I believe that in order to live life in a society oppressed on each end by a tyrannical government and a self-serving capitalistic society, one must lead their own life.

Lotte detests this, on top of other things about me that don't correlate with the lifestyle of a meek and shallow District Seven girl. My verbiage is apparently excessive, and I don't dish out the proper doses of respect to who deserves them. No one deserves respect in my opinion, they earn it. My high list of virtues stems from my mother, Candace, who acts exactly the same way. I learned everything I know about language, leadership, and life by reading books. It's amazing what you can learn by reading a good book, and my mother piled them on me to keep me occupied. Every evening as the sun sets, I'll climb the tallest elm behind our house and perch myself in the topmost crevice. I'll read by the light of the dying sun, and as black licks the edges of the sky, I'll return home. Some nights, if the reading is good, then I'll light a candle and stay up til the wee hours of the morning delving into deeper worlds and fantasies than ever imaginable. Reading and climbing are my passions, and in order to live life to the fullest, one must follow their passions.

This must sound like an awful lot coming from a twelve-year old girl who lives in a small shack in the middle of a forest, but it's all the truth.

"Do you think you'll be reaped?" Lotte whimpers tentatively as she and I make our back to my house.

"I don't see the chances in it," I reply without looking at her, "It's our first year eligible for reaping, and our names are only the bowl once. We both didn't take any tesserae, so I'd say we have a worse chance of being reaped than this rock," I say as I kick the tiny pebble. It lands in Lotte's path and she picks it up, studying it, scrutinizing it with her beady brown eyes.

"What if this rock gets reaped?" Her question is real, and unwavering.

"Then I'll volunteer," I snicker as Lotte shoots me a worried glance. She drops the rock and as I skip onward she rushes to catch up.

"Hey wait!" Lotte calls, but I am too fast. I skip and dance amongst the trees and soon I am devoured by the long line of wood. Lotte's calling my name, so I decide to have fun.

"Catch me if you can!" I giggle and I can hear Lotte laugh in reply. Her footfalls are tiny but loud enough for me to hear and I dash away when she thinks she has me. Lotte's chances of catching me are slim, and I spin around the same tree three times as she approaches, throwing her off. She makes a grab for me, but she barely misses my jacket and I cackle as I continue my fleet-footed dance. Lotte thinks up an idea, a good one, and stops moving. Scanning the tree line with her analytical gaze, she plots every step I will make. That is Lotte's passion, analysis, meticulous planning and tenacity above all. She rushes forward, three trees to my left. I turn to the right to evade her, but she anticipates this and fakes a right dash. My mind can't keep up with my feet so I careen into a tree to my left in hopes of dodging left to escape her. My collision gives her just enough time to close and before I can squeal she has me in her grip.

"Caught you," she smirks, eyes gleaming with victory.

I am out of breath, and I sigh as I look up at her from slacked pose.

"Let's go," I huff and I drag my feet back to the house, where my mother sits on the porch, reading a book.

_Don Quixote, _it reads and it's a book I've never seen before. Wondering what its contents hold, I am about to ask my mother what she is reading, but she intercepts my words and says,

"Maple dear, you're all scraped up," her voice is filled with concern.

She is staring at the long cuts that run up and down my arms, the ones the tree gave me when I skidded down its sides this morning. It was a bad jump, I hardly ever make mistakes, but I think I'm allowed to be a little off on this particular morning. I had completely forgotten about them, and now that my mother is staring at them like they're some deep set infection is bothering me. I don't like my mother to feel pained by my presence or have to worry about me. She already has enough to worry about. Although Benny's older than me, my mom takes care of him like he's a newborn baby. It doesn't bother me; it just makes me want to do things for myself so mother doesn't have to.

"We might have been so bay-ointment," my mother grabs my wrist to lead me into the house, but I know we have no ointment. I could run back out into the forest, I know where a bushel of bay leaves are, but to grind them and work them to a sticky pulp would take hours, hours we don't have. My mother is scanning the shelves, while Lotte and I sit back and watch her hopeless hunt. She runs her hand along the empty, dusty, shelf and turns back to me.

"I'm sorry dear, it seems we don't have any," she sounds deeply pained by this lack of medicine.

"It's ok mom, I'll just wash up now and we can go," I try to sound reassuring.

"Oh Maple, what am I going to do," my mother starts to break down and Lotte and I don't know what's happening. My mother puts her soft pink hands in her face and buries her eyes away from us. The short, horrible sounds of sobs emerge from my mother and I run a hand up and down her back to comfort her. She looks up at me, eyes red and peppered with salty tears.

"Why did I bring four children into this world," she stammers.

"Mom…what are you talking about?" I am genuinely confused at her statement.

"Four names…" she mutters under her breath.

"Mom?"

"Did you know, Maple dear, that when Benny's eighteen years old, he, you, Johanna, and Vel will all be eligible? All four of my children will be eligible. It's not your fault if you're reaped today…it's mine." I understand what she meant now, her guilt rings in her ears and she picks herself up and stumbles into the kitchen.

"Go wash up darling, and tell your father he can come inside. He's out on the side chopping wood, let him know breakfast will be ready soon. Johanna and Vel are getting ready, so they'll be down in a bit, and I think Benny's still sleeping. It would do good to wake him up," she resumes her matriarchal posture, and tends to the quail eggs and wheat cake she is making. Food is scarce for a family of six, so we use what we can.

I swing outside the front door of the house to find my mother, and sure enough he is busy splitting wood in half. His axe comes down with dead precision, and the block of oak splits clean into two separate pieces. I've always wondered, what it would be like if a head were there instead of wood. My father snaps me from my fantasy, as he notices I am standing there with a dumb look on my face.

"Morning Maple," my father smiles roughly. His scraggly black beard fringes his face and his dark green eyes shine in the morning light. His muscles are burly and rough, thanks to years of splitting wood for the lumber yard. My father looks tired, but he smiles nonetheless. Always in a good mood, Richard Starr is a man who works tirelessly and without question. Sometimes like a machine.

"Hey dad," I reply and walk over to the stump he was cutting on. He puts the axe down and picks me up by the waist. I may be twelve years old, but I'm light as a feather thanks to my small stature.

"Mom said breakfast is almost ready," I giggle as he holds me high in the air.

"Alright pumpkin head, I'll be there soon. You go wash up now, we've got somewhere to go today," he dodges using the word 'reaping' because I can see the cloudy hurt creeping into his forest green eyes. This year, his next child is up for the reaping, arguably his favorite one. Although my mother and I are very close due to our intellectual nature and love of reading, my father has always found pure joy in me. He carries me on his shoulders most places we go, and always saves portion of his meals for me, out of sight of the others. Some nights, he'll build a fire behind the house and we'll stare up at the stars and he'll weave the most intricate and fantastical tales of what the constellations are saying to one another. Nights like those make living in District Seven worth it. Out here, where the country isn't ruined by factories and businesses, every single star shines brightly in the sky.

"Go on now," my father smiles as he puts me down and struts to the kitchen. Wrapping his bearlike arms around my mother, he kisses her neck softly and she laughs as the quail eggs simmer on the stove. I can see the joy enter her eyes again, and the both of them look happy. I smile, watching them, and hope that one day, I can make it past these dreadful next six years and start a family.

I am halfway to the washroom when I see Johanna and Vel in their room, fitting on their reaping dresses.

"Oh my, how pretty you are," I awe at my younger sisters beauty, and they smile up at me, like puppies waiting for a ball to be thrown their way. They twirl in their dresses, the ends spinning with them and creating a silky vortex. Johanna's hair is pinned back, it is blonde like my mother's, but Vel and I share the pitch black color of my father's hair.

"We look pretty?" Vel wants another compliment, being only eight years old is a time I remember as hungry for the spotlight.

"Very," I reiterate and Johanna, whose a little more skeptical of what the day brings says,

"Maple…are you going away today?"

Startled at her question I quickly cook up a reply and say, "No, Maple is going to stay right here."

Leaving them, I clean myself in the washroom, careful to get any dirt out of my scrapes. Drying myself off after the cleansing, I walk to my room, the one that I share with Benny. Sure enough, he is sound asleep, the faintest traces of snores rising from his open mouth and nose. He inhales the air around him and coughs up and nasty whoop. I shake his arm, and to my delight he jumps out of bed like someone tried to kill him. He loses his balance and tumbles onto the floor.

"Good morning," I say sweetly.

"Yeah, whatever," Benny says glumly.

"The reapings in less than an hour, get a move on," I instruct as he clambers up from the floor and brushes himself off. Benny sighs and walks to the room I just left from and I can hear him emptying and filling the wash basin with what little water we have.

Digging through my drawers, I settle on a simple pale dress, and slip it on over my petite frame. In another five minutes we're all assembled by the door. My father in his church clothes, my mother in her sundress, Benny in a white shirt tucked into black pants, Johanna and Vel in their beautiful dresses and I in mine. We look like we're going to maybe a wedding or church, but the occasion is not as joyful as that. We are headed for the reaping.

Walking there, not much occurs. Father and Mother walk hand in hand and so do Johanna and Vel, inseparable as they are. Benny and I walk together, but don't talk. We are the two who are center stage this year, Benny and I could possibly be taken from our home and shoved into the Hunger Games, something neither one of us are too keen about. We reach the square and my father takes Johanna and Vel away, smiling at me as he goes. Benny goes on, to the fourteen-year old boy section, but my mother stays and grabs my shoulders.

"Maple dear," she begins, "Be strong, both you and Lotte are only in the bowl once, see there she is."

Lotte is walking up with her family; she must have slipped away while I was getting ready.

"Hi," is all she can say and the fear in her eyes bubbles over and the extra little bits flow into my soul. I begin to shake, uncontrollably but quietly. I am visibly nervous though and I begin to think that this is the first time the reality of it all settles in. If I am reaped, I will die.

We make our way, hand in hand, over to the twelve-year old girl section. Our mothers are far from us now and must act as each other's support system. All the other girls around us appear to feel the same way. For years we have looked on as lambs have been sent to slaughter, not caring a whim. Now, we are those lambs, and our demise is closing in. My shaking calms a bit when Mayor Thornebark makes his way to the stage. He begins talking, and I absorb every word and cling on to each syllable as if someone is going to ask me what he just said. I cannot let a single sound that comes out of his mouth escape my mind. Lotte is tearing up, and her name hasn't even been called.

Our district escort, Alfie Thoreau, is very personable but I don't seem to care about his personality right now. He makes the dark business seem like a sporting event, which it is, you could call it hunting. Except that you release twenty four hunters into the wild and their targets are each other. Thoreau smiles as he saunters over to the girl's bowl, and Lotte's grip on my palm tightens, constricting the flow of blood to my tiny fingers.

He moves his hand around in the bowl for what seems like an eternity, and then finally he fishes out a single slip of white paper, folded forward and then to the side to make a perfect miniature square. He wets his lips with his tongue, the saliva glistening in the sunlight, and then proceeds to read the name on the paper with the sickest and most electric of tones possible.

"Maple Starr!"

My heart catches in my throat and my eyelids flutter for about half a second. Lotte screams a deafening caterwaul and I can hear the sobs of my family rise up from the crowd like a symphony of sirens. I begin to sob, out of control like my tremors earlier, and I somehow manage to make my way to the stage. I look back at Lotte, who's wet and sloppy grief strikes me like a javelin in the chest. I breathe heavy gasps of air, and Alfie takes my hand and nearly drags me up to the platform beside him.

"For the boys," Alfie continues on with the presentation, obviously unaffected by the horrific display of emotion that just occurred. I steal a glance at our lone victor, Rocky Undercity is his name. I remember his games; they were only three years ago. I think they were the first games where I could actually understand the true horrors of the game. When Rocky won, it was like a festival in the streets. He looked so dismal then, the triumph on his face clearly masking a world of hurt and discontent.

He and I hold a steady gaze with each other and he looks horrified at having to mentor a twelve-year old. He hasn't had to so far, and now that Elm died, he's all alone in the training department. He looks pretty upset, but a new horror, unprecedented and hiding in the shadows strikes him and I like a rogue wave in a storm.

"L-Lowle Un-Undercity," Alfie stammers with disbelief.

Rocky looks sideswiped and I know exactly who that is. For a moment, I forget my recent death sentence and mourn with the rest of the crowd. Lowle, Rocky's younger brother looks stupefied, but nothing beats the look on his mother's face. The odds of one son surviving were only one in twenty four, but the chances of two making it through? Next to none.

Then, for the third time in the last minute, something unexpected happens.

"I volunteer!" I hear a voice rise from the crowd, shaky at first but then confident. It is the youngest brother, and although I can't remember his name, I quickly figure out his ploy. Lowle emerged from the eighteen-year old section, which means after today he would have been safe. By taking the bullet for Lowle, this boy is securing the most probable chance of his mother keeping two of her sons. A new set of screams rise from the crowd and the mother submerges into the hypnosis of her grief. Lowle is quickly replaced by his brother, who Alfie announces as,

"Revolc Undercity!"

Rocky looks as if he's been punched in the stomach. He shakes his head and places it between his hands. Shaking with grief, I can only sympathize for a moment until I remember my predicament. No one volunteered for me.

"Oh Maple sweetie, oh Maple," my mother sobs into my shoulder and I resume my sobbing with her. My father holds onto Benny's shoulder as he silently weeps and Johanna and Vel are crying manically next to my mother's side. I hug them all, each and every one of them.

"Here," my father removes the wooden necklace he always wears from his neck and places it around mine.

"May it bring you the best of the luck," he whispers into my ear as he slips it around my thin neck. I shed another tear, in finality. Benny, Johanna and Vel have nothing to say to me, they can't muster the words and after one big family hug they are ushered out by the peacekeeper that stands guard by the door. I scream and pound my tiny balled fists against the wooden door because I know that is the last time I will see them again. The peacekeeper shoves me back into the room as I make a break to find my family. Soon I crumble against the floor, and I don't even notice her entrance, but Lotte is there with me.

"You can climb," she whispers hopefully.

"So? I just stay in a tree the whole time?" Her strategy is dubious at best.

"I don't know," the sobs wrack her body and she crumbles next to me. For a moment, we weep together, loud and mournfully. We hug tightly, passions high and memories resurfacing. She kisses my cheek and the peacekeeper severs my life once more. Lotte looks back as she is carted away and I scream out once more. I know my friend and family are gone now, and I won't ever see them again.

I am late to the train, apparently. I didn't know the train had a schedule, but Rocky tells me we need to hurry as he helps me onto the train. He came to get me after they realized I hadn't boarded yet. I was still in a heap on the floor of the waiting room and he carried me to the platform. When I realized where I was, he put me down and let me board myself. As I step on, I look back at Rocky.

"You don't have to waste time on me, I'm aware of my fate." My words surprise him, coming from a twelve-year old.

He smiles as he looks up at me.

"That's why I'm here," he replies with renewed strength in his voice, "To change it."

"Change what?" I asked incredulously.

"Your fate."

* * *

**Well, I got a bit carried away there. Sorry if the length of this chapter was off-setting. I just wanted to fully develop on the history of Rev's family and the contrast of Maple's mental strength with her physical strength. I have to thank hgwriter123 for both of these fabulous tributes! Shout-outs to nightfuries, RainEpelt, Queen of the Type Writers, richards25, Saltey, dreamgazer86, Kyle Hennepin, and of course IceVeinsVillain for the reviews and constant support throughout this process! Reads, reviews and encouraging words make this worth writing; it lets me know I have an audience! So thanks to all mentioned and those I missed for all of it so far! District Eight is up next!**


	9. A Message from the Capitol

A Message from the Capitol

The 49th Annual Hunger Games

Hello dear readers! This is a **very important** message that is being brought to you all the way from the capitol!

It is my goal to make Doomfall: The 49th Annual Hunger Games the most interactive games ever. In pursuing this, that means I need assistance from all of you, those who reviews and those who don't. All of you must now come together and decide the fate of these games. There are three **major **stepsI have taken in order to make these games the most exciting and interactive ones yet.

There is a poll on my profile, asking the ultimate question of who should win the Hunger Games. The characters fates are undetermined, and it all depends on everything that occurs as the story reaches the first steps into the arena. By voting in this poll, you will allow me to discover which tributes are popular…and those who aren't so lucky. The results of the poll will provide the winning tribute with a nice reward in the form of a parachute once the games begin. I can't say what this parachute will bring, but when it will put a smile on the poll winner's face. Please vote in this poll, as I would love for the interactive features of this story to really take off.

The Bloodbath forum is up! The link is on my profile! The power to influence who lives and who dies in the bloodbath is in your hands! You can access the two separate topics by viewing the forum, and please consider posting your replies. Now, there will be one very lucky and one very unlucky tribute that will emerge from the bloodbath forums. The tribute that is elected to survive the bloodbath the highest amount of times will be guaranteed an automatic spot as a bloodbath survivor. Is there a weak tribute that you love to death? Prolong their life by talking them up in the survival topic! The tribute that is mentioned the most times in the bloodbath forum will have something rather foul occur when the bloodbath begins. It may be an automatic death sentence, but if the tribute is someone who is crucial to the plot line (which none of you know) or they are extremely likely to survive the bloodbath by natural causes, then they will meet with a very unfortunate setback and not a helpless end to their game. So go discuss in the Bloodbath forum who you would like to see survive and who you would like to see fall. And who knows, there may be multiple repercussions from the forum instead of the two mentioned ;)

Ho ho! My favorite interactive feature in these games is the sponsor shop! When the tributes arrive in the capitol, the sponsor shop will open and items will be available for the buying with a grand point system! How do you get points you say? Well, I find it very bland to just grant tributes free bypasses when they should actually have to work for their sponsors. So, that's where all of you come in. If you find a tribute to be deserving of your favor, then you can claim a sponsorship for them in the sponsor shop forum that will be created when the tributes arrive in the capitol. This way, you determine when and what the tributes receive as sponsor gifts, and if you want your tribute out of a sticky situation, then you can buy something from the sponsor shop. Here's how you earn points...

Sign-Up as a tribute's sponsor (limit: only three tribute sponsorships per person)- 100 points.

Isn't that great, you can get up to 300 points for just signing up!

Other point rewarding tasks will include discussing in the Bloodbath forum, voting in the polls, leaving reviews, and a few other things that aren't going to be revealed yet. Don't try and get points now, because remember…the sponsor shop will not open until the tributes reach the capitol.

I think these three steps will make this a very interactive games and a wonderful story! So please participate once all these activities open (a few are open now) and help me make this the best story it can possibly be!


	10. A Dynasty Ends- DP

It was late at night when Zios Dragoon finished his letter to President Snow. He rubbed his weary eyes and closed the high-tech laptop shut. Raising his mug to his lips at an attempt to swig down some more coffee, he learned that his cup was empty with a look of dismay on his face. This instance had occurred about seven times already, and realizing that he would have to send the letter in the morning due to the creeping sense of fatigue working its way up his spine, Zios breathed a sigh mixed with accomplishment and discontent. The wizened man opened his bag, meticulously placing his laptop, notes, and a few assorted items inside. Rising from the chair with a groggy groan, he wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and made his way to the door with a limping gait. Scanning the room one last time to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, Zios shut the door, locked it, and clambered down the hall.

He passed by the offices of his fellow gamemakers, but his was much more grand with his prestigious title of Head Gamemaker blazoned on the oak door. As he walked, his footsteps made staccato beats against the tile floor and he felt the sense of accompaniment. Shrugging of this vague presage of danger, he continued on his way, eventually reaching the main door of the establishment. Heaving the giant front door of the Games Department open, Zios Dragoon slipped out into the night, letting a knife of moonlight into the building's foyer. The moonbeam was soon cut off as the door slammed shut, in a rather definitive manner. Looking back at the building, Zios shook his head, the emotional context of the games more clear in his old age. Zios learned that you couldn't survive the position of Head Gamemaker by being a ruthless commander; you had to be careful and watch your words, and certainly pay attention to every fine detail of the game. It was notions like these that filled his head as he limped down the steps with his almost as ancient cane for assistance.

True to the rumors, Zios was older than President Snow, and the two had known one another for over twenty years. Zios's father Ares had been an excellent Head Gamemaker and the position was passed down to his son when he died of natural causes long ago. Zios had been Head Gamemaker for eighteen years now, and as of late he had started to decline in his practice and increase in his stupor. Zios Dragoon was aging, and fast. He knew his fate was inevitable, but if you do a good job then Snow lets you off easy. There had been a string of unsuccessful gamemakers before his grandfather, Rydelle. The nation had filtered through five Head Gamemakers within eight games and Snow's father had finally found his recipe to perfection with the Dragoon family. Rydelle produced Ares who produced Zios and for the last thirty-two years the Hunger Games had been managed by careful and cunning hands.

Zios believed his friendship with Snow was escaping him. His mental decline was obvious, Zios had to wait until he was nearly fifty to become Head Gamemaker and now at age sixty-seven, Zios was starting to dull. Snow was not oblivious to this, and Zios believed that for his services he would be let down kindly opposed to the macabre ends that are depicted by tales of games before the Dragoon family took over. Zios had just finished writing his old friend and employer a letter, hoping to ease the concerns of the arena and the dubiety of the games. The letter was saved on his laptop, and tomorrow morning Zios planned to write it out and hand it to him in person, when they met for the pre-games banquet at Snow's estate. Almost to his luxury car, one that wasn't sold to the public, Zios breathed heavily from the walk, his physical limits were shortening as well. Reaching out to grab the handle of his car, Zios never heard the shot.

Crashing to the ground instantly, Zios crumpled in a heap at the foot of his car. The bullet had lodged deeply into the side of his skull, and the blood starting seeping out quickly. His snowy white hair and grey cloak were stained with shades of cerise and the Head Gamemaker was dead before he had hit the ground. The laptop had broken when it hit the pavement with Zios's loss of control, and the letter to the President was erased from existence.

* * *

Dolora Prewitt was sound asleep in her comfortable king size bed secluded in the midst of her manor. She wasn't snoring, but a deep sleep controlled her that was suddenly shattered like glass does when victim to a hammer. The telephone rang, its steady buzzing making Dolora startle in her sleep and almost jump out of bed. She threw back the purple velvet sheets and her matching kimono scrunched up as she adjusted her body to an upright position. She picked up the phone on its fifth ring.

"Miss Prewitt?" the voice on the other end asked, one she did not recognize.

"This is she," the woman sighed, thinking her sleep had been interrupted by some midnight telemarketer.

"This is President Snow," the voice stated coldly.

Her heart stopped, the President never spoke to the other gamemakers. He dealt directly with the Head Gamemaker, who relayed his messages to the others. Dolora made silent prayers, trying to remember any error she had made in the past few weeks.

"Oh Mr. President, good evening," she tried to sound cheery, hoping she was in his favor.

"Well its past evening, and it certainly isn't good," the President replied.

"Might I inquire as to why?" Dolora didn't know where civility met disrespectful.

"Zios Dragoon was shot tonight; he died before he hit the ground. It brings me great sadness to bring this news to you, but I feel as your president and employer it is only right I do so. The pre-games banquet has been postponed to deal with this crisis and I trust we shall all work together to make this the finest set of games...in memory of our dear departed Zios," the President relayed the news, pausing before he included the apparently compassionate vignette.

Dolora felt like she had been cut down. Zios was dead? There was no way, not when the games were so close. Who was going to fill his position? There was so much going on in her mind that she forgot to say something back to the president.

"Miss Prewitt?" the President said once more.

"Sorry," she breathed, "Sir," she added. "Is there going to be a funeral?"

"Tomorrow, the arrangements have already been made and I regret that I will see you at the Rose Gardens to bury him. It will take all of our strength to pull off these games now," the President sounded sincere, "Goodnight Miss Prewitt."

"Goodnight Mr. President," she said. The phone line went dead and Dolora slowly placed the phone down on its receiver. She did not go back to sleep.

* * *

The Rose Gardens were full of attendees that morning. Cameramen plagued the verdant sanctuary, capturing every move for the capitol to see. Caesar Flickerman was making a live report while the guests tried their best to mingle and discuss the brilliant life of Zios Dragoon. Some of the notable guests included Flickerman, who had just begun his career two years ago. The capitol ate him up and his charm and wit moved an audience to tears and laughter all within one sentence. Barnabas Templesmith was present, he had just retired from the games announcing business and this was the first year that his son Claudius would be announcing the games. Claudius possessed a high forehead, and he and Flickerman were already becoming close friends. President Snow was of course present, it was his garden after all. White roses hung from the bushes, accompanied by variations of pink and red, ranging from light shades of pearl to deep hues of crimson. The gardens provided a perfect place for a funeral.

Funerals work differently in the capitol. Bodies are not buried, but put on public display at somewhere nice and sociable, like the Rose Gardens or the Sky Tower. After the wake, everyone left and the mortician took the body to one of the many mausoleums, where they were stored in their casket in a sort of filing cabinet system. The procedure was simple, but different from traditional styles of postmortem fashion. People didn't wear black to funerals either. Everyone came in their best collections of exotic clothing and celebratory hues. Neon colors were rampant amongst the raiment of the guests, except for President Snow and Archibald Greaves. Snow had a simple periwinkle suit with a white tie and white shoes, while Greaves was donned in his classic all-white ensemble. The two looked out of place in this crowd of eccentric clothing. It was a sight, to be in the wrong when you wore relatively normal clothing, but what is normal in the capitol?

Dolora Prewitt was standing with President Snow, her purple gown matching her lavender hair. She wore a black fur coat around her dress and a soft application of lipstick the same color as her hair graced her lips and similar eye shadow and mascara around her eyes. Everyone filed past the body, murmuring goodbyes and grievances and departed as the cameras rolled. Nothing was private in the capitol, not even your death. President Snow watched with a keen eye as he witnessed every individual expel their misery and move along. When the last of the crowd died down, Snow gathered the game makers and a few other individuals together.

"If you will follow me into a deeper part of the garden we can view the last will and testament of Zios Dragoon," the President instructed everyone to accompany to him to a certain place that was fringed with white roses. The gamemakers were cluttered together while two women, one young and one old stood off to the side.

President Snow unfurled the withered parchment in his hand and coughed before he began, "To Verna Billingsley, I leave my estate. She was the closest friend I ever had and I trust her with all the faculties I used to possess. A word of parting, do not despair for me but continue to live on in the bright manner I knew you for." The older woman smiled and her eyes became misty as she realized the extent of Zios's gift. Holding a white handkerchief to her eyes, she dabbed away tears and Snow continued.

"To Glamour Glitzing, I leave the extent of my fortunes. Every penny I possess that doesn't find form in land or item shall be given to Ms. Glitzing. As the one who showed me there was nothing to fear and everything to admire, I give her this." The younger woman smiled appreciatively and gave a tight squeeze to Verna, the older woman next to her. The two women appeared gratified at the wealth coming their way.

"As to my gamemakers, one of you must now fulfill the role I have left behind," President Snow paused for effect, "That of Head Gamemaker. Now, as of the time of my death, if the following name still bears a title of life to go with it and an occupation as a gamemaker of the Games Department, then I appoint,"

President Snow's eyes widened for half a second as he read the next words in his head, and then looked up at Archibald Greaves coldly and quietly. "Dolora Prewitt." Snow read the words in a fading tone. Archibald looked down at Dolora, who clasped a hand to her heart in disbelief. She didn't see it then, but Archibald's eyes seemed to flicker with hatred, and cold malice budded in him that day, like a noisome weed riddled with thorns. Archibald Greaves furrowed his brow, came to a dissembling resolve, and was the first to congratulate Dolora. The other gamemakers, obviously stupefied, shook hands with Dolora and she almost forgot to smile at them. Snow dismissed the gamemakers that had no tie to the will, including Archibald Greaves, along with Verna and Glamour. That left President Snow and Dolora alone in the Rose Garden.

"Miss Prewitt," Snow began, "I am going to let you know that the stories told of days when the games were rather…_anticlimactic_, that the government, mainly my father, orchestrated the timely demises of the Head Gamemakers. I hold no view different than my father, and although I haven't had to, I will cut you down if the prelude to my Quarter Quell leaves a sour taste in the mouth of the nation. You have been given a duty, unprecedented but demanding of your full attention. You will make sure these games go smoothly with the absence of Zios or I will do for it you. Are we clear?" The Presidents words were icy and unforgiving.

"Crystal," Dolora said brightly. The confidence on the outside drastically differing from what she actually felt on the inside, Dolora almost cried out the looming question. Why did Zios pick her? Archibald was obviously prepared for the job. She just couldn't think of what she did to bring her into Zios's favor.

"With this in mind, I will let you know, not I, nor any other element of the government was responsible for the death of Zios Dragoon," Snow said.

"You're saying he was murdered?" Dolora asked skeptically.

"Zios was a friend of mine, and the plans for this year's games are polished to perfection. I would not take his life when he was proving so useful," Snow made his supposed friend sound more like a tool.

"Walk with me," Snow ordered.

The pair reached the entrance to the Rose Gardens, and Snow turned to face his companion.

"I think you'll do just fine," he looked her up and down, his chestnut beard blowing in the afternoon breeze that was whipping up. "Be at the Games Department first thing tomorrow morning, you'll be taking a trip to the arena. You need to see what you're responsible for after all. Upon your return you'll be given Zios's old office and a new assistant. Flickerman wants an interview from whoever won the spot, which would be you, around two o'clock in the afternoon and then there are the reapings to watch. You've got a lot of work to do Dolora; I'd suggest finding a good psychiatrist." President Snow smiled gravely, his aura of dark power masked by the cheery façade. Dolora smiled back and after a brief awkward moment, she slipped out the gate to the Rose Gardens and out onto the street.

"Oh, and Dolora!" President Snow called, "I'm aware your son is sick."

The words killed Dolora's alacritous getaway and her breath stopped traveling up her throat. Her lungs tightened as she turned and with dry lips she managed to conjure up a reply,

"He'll be better soon."

"I'm sure he will," the President bid her goodbye and with those bone chilling words, disappeared into the sanctuary of the roses. Feeling contempt and jealousy for Zios all in the same breath, Dolora could only think one thing. He must be glad to be dead.

**Well, I thought I would take the liberty to expand the plot of Dolora Prewitt and the life of the Gamemakers, particularly Zios and Dolora. With the Head Gamemaker murdered by someone who isn't President Snow and the capitol in a frenzy over the homicide and the upcoming games, Dolora is in a tight spot. Plus, Snow knows Matthew's sick, which will play in later, along with the assassination of Zios.**

** I was feeling a bit bored with the reapings, feeling they were becoming repetitive. I sat down and intended this to be the District Eight reapings, but I couldn't type anything up and I want to do the tributes justice. Well, be sure to visit the forums, vote in the poll, leave a review, and keep reading! Reviews are what make me want to write more, so they are always appreciated! Thanks to all who even take the time to just read and the district eight reapings will be up sooner than you think.**

** Additionally (I know, bit of a long A/N) after putting my Mario Apprentice story on hiatus, I have also elected to put my Mole fiction on hiatus as well. I want to hone my writing skills and make this story the very best it can be, so expect more frequent updates due to the sole dedication to this story. **

** Happy Hunger Games and May the Odds be Ever in Your Favor :D**

-**AdmiralBobbery**


	11. District 8 Reapings- Two Kinds of Fire

**A/N: I have returned! Yes, most of you probably thought I had jumped ship on this story, but alas, I am back! I've just been incredibly busy as of late what with school, exams, getting a plethora of new 3DS games, and devoting more time to my family and social life. I also did battle with an incredible stroke of writer's block, I actually sat down to do this chapter many times but couldn't get it going for either tribute. But, I think I've done the best possible job with them, and I'm super excited to get through the final batch of reapings. So soon my lovelies, we will be off to the capitol! Just about four more reapings *shot*, ENJOY!**

* * *

**Daedrya Redwyne**

**District Eight- Female**

**Courtesy of TheDevilInside**

* * *

Cold as ice, my eyes seep into every pore of the girl beside me. She feigns a look of concentration and control, but I can see her shaking in the way a mouse would against a hungry cat. Her fear begins to crawl up the back of her spine, dominating the crevices previously unacquainted with the sweaty desire to flee and scream. She can't though, I won't let her.

"Hit me!" I shout, loud enough to snap her out of whatever terrified dream she was having.

"I…I…," she begins but I don't let her finish.

"You…you…what?" I shout once more, imitating the pauses in her voice.

"I..c-c-," she doesn't get any farther than I will let her.

"Don't you tell me you can't," my voice settles, and the determination I am desperately trying to imbue into this child misses completely as she crumples and whines. Slobbering all over herself like some deranged animal, I can't help but feel pity. There, my weakness, the unwanted tendency to want to pick up this girl and tell her it will be alright, tell her that she won't ever be reaped and can go home and sing about sugarplums and snuggle with her cat all day and night. I can't though, because the reaping bowl is unpredictable at best, and these girls came to me, so they must want to learn, right?

"Get your things and be out of here before I count to ten," I say, shattering every urge to attend to the girl's wounds.

"What?" she asks incredulously.

"One," I begin, "Two."

Scrambling, she throws things into her bag and dashes for the door. She is gone before I reach eight.

The other girls in the training complex look at me, and as much as I want to cancel practice for the rest of the day and go home and cry for every girl I've had to turn away, I demand that the next one steps up to the platform. For two years now I've run the underground training complex in District Eight, aspiring to prepare not just myself but as many girls as possible to be victorious if ever thrown into the games. Before me, my older sister Khalyssa ran the center, but she retired after her games. Coming home a victor, Khalyssa didn't seem to be changed by the horrors of the games, but I can hear her weep and moan throughout the black silence of the night. It only seemed fitting that I take the complex over after her, but training there and managing it are two separate things entirely.

I want to be like Khalyssa, fierce and unrelenting in training and discipline, and I am for the most part. The only thing that differs between us is that my emotional lexicon contains a feeling unknown to my daring and selfish sister, sympathy. I feel it when I knock a struggling thirteen-year old to the ground or when I chew off a small child's head for not properly executing a drill. I want to be their friend, and tell them falsehoods that would do wonders to make them feel better. But instead I play the role of the brutish instructor, ever tough and callous.

"Now, does anyone else want to leave?" I ask the remaining students in an almost playful tone. Knowing my invitational framing of the sentence is drenched with sarcasm, no one moves a muscle.

"Good, now Kelli, why don't you spar with Andromeda while I take Lucia and Noni to the mat," I dish out the orders and the four girls I have left disperse to their allocated areas. Instantly, Kelli and Andromeda don their boxing gloves and begin to pepper each other's skin with cushioned red blows. The pain on their faces is evident, even from my observational view twenty feet away. I guess I hadn't been paying attention, because Lucia says my name for what she claims to be the fifth time.

"Sorry, just thinking," I tell the two girls and cross over to the blue matted floor. Lucia and Noni pick up their own wooden sword, and I do the same. Each of us armed, I begin to explain the drill.

"We'll be doing a 2 v. 1, make things a little easier because it's reaping day," I say, slightly grimacing as I name the occasion. The girls don't move, so I look back up at them, "Any time ladies," I say.

Lucia shrugs to Noni and rushes me, almost nonchalantly. Peeved by her lack of thought, I brush the wooden blade down hers and force my arms upward. Wrenching the weapon from her hands, I use the element of surprise to duck in and slam her stomach. However, my actions are stopped by a defensive Noni, who deflects my blow and whirls around to deliver her own, switching things to the offensive. Recovered from her confusion in a blink, Lucia aims for my shoulder. I roll down on the ground and parry both hits, knocking Lucia and Noni back a bit. Knowing times is precious; I smack Lucia in the stomach with the hilt of my sword and use the blade to slash at Noni's chest. Driving the blade in, it rebounds off her chest due to its wooden quality, but the stab is considered a kill.

"Ugh!" Noni barks angrily and stomps out of the ring, disappointed with her technique. One down, one to go.

Lucia resumes a bit early, knowing cheating is her only shot at winning. Coming across my face with the sword, Lucia intends to chop my throat, but I slink away before the blade can make contact. Meeting her next swing with my own blade, I roll the threat and end up with my sword in her face. Surprised at her tactless deflection but ready to use the consequence to my advantage, I rush my blade forward. It seems as if the move wasn't as maladroit a thought as I supposed, for Lucia ducks down at tackles me to the floor. Winded, I can't move at first, which gives my student the upper hand.

I can tell Lucia intends to use my momentary dizziness to her advantage, but her efforts are soured by my quick return to my feet. Bewildered by speed, Lucia has trouble blocking the flurry of cuts I send her way, and she soon drops her sword in an effort to block a blow. Collapsing to the ground, Lucia whimpers as I run the sword across her neck, marking the fake kill.

"Well, I didn't think you would be able to pull it off anyway," I mumble at the girls, pretending to be annoyed. I know they are tired, and although they don't know it, I excuse their flawed behavior. Anyone would be scared today, Reaping Day. I can't help but feel a pang of fear myself, and as I adjourn the mornings training session, morbid thoughts of dying alone and far from home penetrate my mind. I lost another girl today, and as the four left trudge out of the wide iron doors of the complex, I wonder to myself how many will live to see adulthood.

* * *

"Daedrya!" My youngest sister Auraeine exclaims as I nearly crawl through the front door of our house. Auraeine adores me, and her radiant little smile almost bounces off her face as she skips over to greet me. Hanging her arms around my neck she plants a light kiss on my cheek and calls out, "Mommy! Daddy! Daedrya's home!" My ear rings from her caterwaul, and I set her down lightly as my mother enters the room.

Rose Redwyne, my mother, is absolutely gorgeous. Auburn hair burns down her shoulders and onto her back, rich and voluminous in its many curls. Her eyes are cat-like and cerulean like the sea. The irises are peppered with flakes of jade, a unique trait inherited from my grandmother. Skin smoother than cream and lips tiny and bright red, my mother is of angelic beauty. Wearing a simple red dress and earrings my father gave her as a wedding present, my mother looks ravishing.

"Good morning Daedrya, you know it's perfectly alright to tell me that you're leaving in the morning," she tries to sound upset but I know she doesn't really care. I've been going to the training center for years and I've hardly ever announced my departure in the wee hours of the morning.

I look nearly identical to my mother, but I don't believe I possess the same beauty as her. I mean, my friends always tell me I do, but I just find the polarity between us so striking. Whereas I train relentlessly, my mother would never hurt a dandelion. She is delicate and graceful in all that she does, where getting me to sit down without causing a racket is quite the feat. Just because I feel sympathy for the girls doesn't mean I don't like to train. Training is who I am; I've always felt that I need to be ready for anything, even if that means the Hunger Games. With all of these thoughts running through my mind, I don't even notice when Khalyssa comes down.

That is, until she smashes the pitcher of water my mother was bringing over to the breakfast table. Smashing down to the ground, the ceramic jug breaks into many different pieces, some bigger than others. The water bursts out in a plume that soaks the clothes of both my mother and sister. Annoyance creeps onto my mother's face, and a look mixed between rage and confusion bubbles in her eyes.

"Khalyssa Shyrene Redwyne, what in heavens is the meaning of that?" My mother uses my sister's full name for effect.

Khalyssa doesn't care, and what she does next surprises us all. Ever since the games, the only sign of madness I've ever experienced from Khalyssa is the midnight moaning and crying, but never, not once, has she ever exhibited any outward act of violence to anyone in the middle of the day. So when her pale and slender fingers close around my mother's throat and she drives the two of them into the back wall of the kitchen, I know something is terribly wrong.

"Mommy!" Auraeine screams and I react swiftly. My mother is fighting to breathe and faces turns from white to red to purple in seconds. Khalyssa tightens her grip, and the veins begin to emerge in the darkening flesh of my mother's cheeks.

"Khalyssa stop!" I command, but my sister doesn't even turn to look at me. As my mother's eyes roll into the back of her head, I no Khalyssa has made up her mind. She intends to kill.

Sweeping her legs out from under her with a silent kick, my sister and mother go crashing to the ground. Khalyssa retains her grasp though, and then the screaming begins. Wildly hollering, Khalyssa pounds my mother's head into the floorboards and I try to separate the two of them. Drawn from outside by the noise, my father burst into the kitchen and springs into action. Before he can arrive at my mother's side however, I throw my hands at Khalyssa's face and shove her back from my mother, separating the pair. Swallowing in gigantic gulps of air, my mother collapses behind me and my father rushes to her side. Auraeine broke down long ago, and the tears are streaming down her face as she goes to my mother's side. I look down at Khalyssa and I notice that the same hot, salty, liquid is pouring down her face as well. Burying her head into my shoulder, I pat the back of my sister's head as she lets the horrifying and secret emotions out.

"What is going on?" My father, Mallus, asks.

"Khalyssa just snapped," is all I can say.

"I'm so sorry…so sorry…so…so…sorry," Khalyssa is sobbing completing now, and my training clothes are drenched. My mother looks up at my father, and I think she understands. Khalyssa wasn't acting on any premeditated notion; she had been driven by emotional psychosis. We hadn't seen this before.

"Girls, go wash up," my father commands, "I'll talk to Khalyssa."

"But dad," I protest, wanting to care for my sister and mother.

"I'll see your mother is taken care for, now go," his tone is final.

"Fine," I snap.

Grabbing Auraeine's hand, I lead her up the steps. She looks back, her long brown hair spiraling around her shoulder as she does so. Her big blue eyes focus on my mother.

"Is mommy going to be ok?" she asks.

"She'll be fine," I say.

"What about you?" Auraeine asks next.

It was a question I hadn't anticipated, coming from Auraeine. I look down at my sweet and innocent younger sister and whisper to her, my voice wobbling, "I don't know."

* * *

I am in a sparkling green dress, spun recently by the seamstresses at the complex. The complex is a big market for all the textiles and clothing items in district eight, and my mother had taken Auraeine and I there for new reaping dresses. Mine is shimmering with flecks of gold wedged in between a diaphanous wrap of emerald. My wavy red hair looks like a tide of fire next to the complimenting green, and my mother gasps as I make my way down the stairs. Her skin is back to its pale color now, but the bruises on her throat are something I couldn't take my eyes off of. Black and blue, the marks spoke of the horror that occurred earlier this morning, and as I look around the living room I notice Khalyssa isn't around.

"Your sister went ahead to the reaping," my father explains. Being a victor and all, Khalyssa gets to sit on the stage with the other victor from eight, Celeste Brightwood. Auraeine falls in beside me, in a delicate pink dress. Together, arm and arm, my sister and I head out the door to the reaping, followed by our parents.

The mayor's speech is as blasé as usual, and I find myself yawning with drowsiness after the spiel is over. An elderly woman, obviously a part of this business for quite some time came out of the Justice Building and over to the microphone. Magenta Shimmerings has been our district escort for as long as anyone can remember, and her crow's feet dance on the sides of her eyes as she speaks.

"District Eight, you know the customs. Let us begin," her cantankerous manner is customary as well, but I can't blame her. I'd be grouchy all the time if my name was Magenta. Lowering her shriveled hand into the bowl, Magenta pulls out a slip of paper with some unfortunate boy's name on it. Opening the card quickly, Magenta sharply cries into the microphone, "Aden Hanran!"

A boy with the most dazzling red hair I have ever seen makes his way to the stage. One of the older ones, he doesn't seem too fazed as he meets Magenta. He winks at someone, but I can't tell who it is, for he looks behind me where I'm standing in the seventeen-year old section. Magenta pokes his side, much to his surprise and makes some sound of approval. Magenta always pokes the boys; Khalyssa said it's her way of seeing if they're any good.

"Now for you ladies out there," Magenta crosses over to the other bowl, and reads a name I didn't expect to hear.

"Joana Oakling!" the crone does her best at a shout, her ancient voice weak in its age.

It is not I, nor my sister, or anyone of my friends, but my heart is torn in two. Joana Oakling is the girl I kicked out of the complex this morning, and the last person in district eight mentally prepared to take on the games. I don't know what I'm doing, but as Joana looks back at me on her way to the stage, something deep inside me pushes me forward.

"I volunteer!" I shout, much to the surprise of everyone in the square.

"Bah-What?" Magenta looks surprised, but her look can't match that of Joana's, which pales in comparison to Khalyssa's.

"No! No!" Khalyssa falls out of her chair on the stage and begins to break down. I brush my fiery red hair behind my back as I replace Joana.

"We match," Aden smirks as he plays with his own red curls. Celeste Brightwood restrains Khalyssa as she tries to reach me, but I do not look at my sister. I can see Joana's family down in the square, hugging their daughter and thanking God. I feel heroic for a moment, but then I realize while one families rejoices, another is mourning. That family happens to be mine.

* * *

"You don't even know her!" My mother is distraught.

"Explain this Daedrya!" My father commands.

"Daedrya!" Auraeine weeps.

"Enough!" I shout, letting my true emotions out for once. "This morning I basically let that girl know she would never be good enough for the games! You think that it's some coincidence that she was the one reaped today? I stripped a child of her ambitions and hope today, and this is how I make that up to her. Do you think she could emotionally handle the games after being told by her mentor that she won't ever be good enough? She'd probably kill herself on the train there!"

My family is stunned, quiet and unmoving. My father plants a kiss on my cheek and whispers, "Make me…us, proud."

My mother removes the earrings my father gave her and pins them on me instead. "Remember us," she says it like I won't. I can't face Auraeine, so I bury her in my shoulder with a hug instead and bow my head in fake emotion as she exits, so I don't have to meet her eyes. My family leaves, and the remainder of silence reminds me that in all the time I took out of my day to train, I never made any friends.

It isn't a peacekeeper who comes to get me, but Celeste Brightwood, with Aden in tow.

"They're busy with your sister," Celeste puts emphasis on the word "your." Following us onto the train, Celeste blocks my view of the outside world and my heart sinks a little as I board. The past ten minutes have been a blur, and as the train takes off I wonder to myself if I made the right decision.

* * *

**Aden Hanran**

**District Eight- Male**

**Courtesy of Demented Kawaii Kitten**

* * *

Creeping along the side of the building, my hands pressed down against the cold stone, I steal a quick breath, chancing the gaze of the peacekeeper in front of me. He doesn't look though, and my heart flutters as my right foot extends into a secret knife of moonlight. I can't be caught now, not when I'm so close. Sidling along the wall until I'm well past the peacekeeper, the door is on my immediate left. The oaf doesn't even look up from his post, he's probably asleep. Factoring in this probability, I wedge the door open as slow as I can. I am in.

Inside the factory, I dash behind a barrel as a man makes his way down the walkway. Mumbling to himself, half-asleep, this shadowy figure doesn't even notice me as he strides right past. A lot is riding on this mission's success, and I nearly crawl to the doorway where my prize awaits. Whatever amount of security they have on this place, it's obviously not enough.

I counted my blessings too soon, because the last person I want to see is rummaging through the desk in the moonlit office I have crept into. Now when I say creeping, I'm not trying to sound like some thief, even though that is what I technically am. I work in this factory, so it's easy to say I'm just coming back for something I left behind. Really, I'm not breaking in, which is why I was chosen for this job. Furthermore, I'm not some bandit that belongs to a thieves den, nothing like that. I am a rebel; I fight for freedom, against the oppression of President Snow and the godforsaken capitol. What I've come for is merely a piece of paper, a plan. However, as close as I am to what I have come for, my boss, Mr. Jingle, is fiercely protecting it throughout the night.

Mr. Jingle is not a pleasant man, despite how wonderful his surname may sound. It's not his real last name; he dropped his official one and picked up this one in honor of the annoying sound his bell makes. Mr. Jingle adores his bell, ringing it when we need to speed up or slow down, when it's time to come or go, or when it's time to talk or shut up. Every move in this factory is designated by that infernal, jingling, bell. Hence, Mr. Jingle.

In all my thoughts, I make a misstep and my foot collides with a stack of stones used to weigh down the pulley ropes, seated right outside his office. Letting a quiet squeal of pain escape my lips, I fear my mission may be doomed. Praying that Mr. Jingle did not hear me, I close my eyes. When I open them, it's to my misfortune that my prayers aren't answered.

"Who's there?" Jingle barks in a mixture of fear and confusion.

Silent as the night, I dare not reply.

"God, I'm getting senile," Jingle says to himself.

I'm not getting anywhere near those papers if Jingle is right next to them, so a new plan hatches in my brain. Picking up one of the stones my foot had collided with, I heave it over my shoulder. Throwing it as far down the hallway as I can in the direction away from me, I slip behind the stack as the rock and floor collide.

"Hey!" Jingle shouts, running to the door like a drunken pig. His fat body clambers down the hallway and I can tell by the way he is sagging his shoulders that he is a wee bit inebriated. With Jingle out of the office, I take my opportunity. While the doltish boar of a man is investigating the ruckus, I slip into his office and dispense of my shadowy tactics. Slamming the door shut and turning the lock, I race to the desk and fish out exactly what I was looking for. Jingle smashes into the door, using his body as a battering ram. I pop open the window, just as Jingle begins to fumble with the keys on his belt. Not looking back, I slide out the window and drop onto the cool, soft grass awaiting me. When Jingle reaches the window to search for his midnight assailant, I am already gone.

* * *

I don't know how the rest of the night unfolded. I ran and ran and ran until I reached our hideout, and I must've crashed as soon as I got there. Waking up to someone washing my face with ice cold water isn't the way I would've liked to learn however.

"Sorry," a sweet girl's voice says. It's a voice that I instantly recognize.

"What time is it?" I ask.

"Almost nine, the reaping is in an hour," the girl says.

This isn't just any girl though: this is Lena, my wife. As I'm about to plant a good morning kiss on her wet lips, I am interrupted by another voice, this one not as girly or sweet.

"You've slept long enough lover boy," Stone says as he enters the den of our base. Lena looks up at him disapprovingly, the two have never liked each other, and Lena is barely even a rebel. It's true that she's one of us, but she joined because she needed to survive. Starving and orphaned, Lena came to us in desperation, and although many were upset with the extra mouth to feed, I convinced Morgan to let her in. Morgan is our leader, and although I'm pretty high up on the totem pole, she presides over our band of malcontents. Stone is at the same level as me, and we're both directly under Morgan. If something ever happens to her, then one of us would take over. Stone thinks it would be him, but I know Morgan wouldn't trust the brute in her stead.

"Morgan's looking over those papers," Stone keeps on talking between bites of his apple. Lena makes a face at the floor, obviously wishing for Stone to go away. Sensing her discontent, Stone rises.

"Well, I guess I'll be going," Stone's grim cackle can be heard as he struts away. Stone has been here almost as long as Morgan, and his attitude has taken a more sour turn with his development into an adult. I've always managed to stay relatively cheery, but not everything in my life has been roses, which is exactly why I'm helping to lead a group of rebels instead of sleeping in a house of my own. My parents didn't exactly agree with the current state of government, and being rebels themselves, they wound getting into some trouble. I guess rebellion is part of the Hanran genetic code, or maybe it's just a way to survive. Either way, my parent's luck at dodging the law soon ran out, and when I was nine, they were ripped from our home and paraded through the square. Screaming and crying, I ran out to the scaffold, unaware of the horrors ready to unfold. I can still remember the look of satisfaction on that peacekeeper's face as he brought the whip down on the backs of my mother and father. The beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and onto my weeping face. The furrow of his brow was creased with lines of anger and might mixed together. My mother broke first, crying as she hit the base of the scaffold. Rising to protect her, my father's back bled like the red of the morning sun, and his skin peeled off in strips of white and crimson.

Then, when he was done, the peacekeeper shot them both in the head.

I can remember it all so clearly.

So I ran and I ran and I ran. I've lived off the streets and scrambled through dumpsters and alleyways to find the remnants of meals tossed out. I became pretty good at it too, dodging the peacekeepers and purloining people of their pleasantries. First I stole cooling foods off of windowsills, but then I moved to pawning things like wallets and necklaces off the necks of the oblivious. Becoming a thief and a cheat, I survived in the shadows of District Eight, for about four years until Morgan confronted me. She was yelling, screaming about how I wasn't being reasonable with my plunders and depriving others in need of a fair share. Haranguing me from dusk to dawn, Morgan talked about how someone like me should use their skills to protect the people and not rob them. That's how I became a rebel, I guess.

At sixteen, Morgan made me a leader, something unheard of in our circle. She said I had talents most of them could learn from, and justified her decision by sending me out on special missions to retrieve profiles and blueprints of the capitol's sinister machinations. Protecting the people became first on my list, but pleasing Morgan and the rest of them had always egged me on. That is until Lena came.

They hadn't wanted to let her in, but I convinced them. Soon we were in love. I would take her on missions with me and taught her how to really be a rebel, but that sort of life can't be Lena's. Now, in present time, Lena mostly stays at the base and takes care of the twins.

Yeah, we have twins.

It was unexpected, unplanned, and I hate to say it, but unwanted. I love my children with all my heart though and can honestly say they are the best thing that's ever happened to me. Lena and I would make love on the hills of the Verdane, a lush valley that runs through the east of District Eight. The Verdane is rife with cotton, sorghum, and other crops vital to the districts. There's a patch where a willow tree grows, and a copse of violet azaleas blooms between the tree and a babbling stream nearby. It's the most peaceful place that I can think of, but it rang with the cries of pain that can only come from a mother on the day that Hunter and Logan were born.

Hunter came first, although he's a bit smaller than Logan. He's got his mother's blonde hair, and the cerulean blue of her eyes. Logan was born second, with the hair that belongs to me, red as fire and as bright as the stars. Logan may be a bit more intelligent than Hunter, but she doesn't show it. The two are inseparable, and although they are only two years old, it doesn't make me smile any less.

So today, on the last day that I have a chance of being reaped, I kiss both my babies goodbye as Lena deposits them into Morgan's care.

"We need to talk about those papers when you get back," Morgan's agenda sounds dire as she bounces Logan in her dark arm. I lock my hazels eyes with her empty black ones, understanding the situation. Lena looks concerned, but Hunter draws her attention with a pout. Sounds are all the twins can still make, but he is visibly upset.

"You're going to stay with Auntie Morgan now," Lena coos as she leads Hunter's hand to Morgan's. It is unique, to see the snow white hand connect with Morgan's deep ebony one. Morgan flashes a strained smile at Lena and I as we make our way to the square, worrying about more than just some plans, but the lives of our children as we meet with the possibility of being torn away from them. I've always thought about what I would do if Lena or I were reaped, but I know that there are people like Morgan and as tough as he may be, Stone, to look after them.

As the peacekeeper takes my blood sample, I flash a toothy grin at Lena as we are separated. She makes her way to the seventeen-year old girl section, while I cross over to the eighteen-year old boy group. Standing amongst the unfamiliar crowd, boys dressed in their best with the desire of going back to their comfortable homes rooted in their brains. I don't have a home to go back to, and I find myself growing impatient with the formalities of the mayor. I have things to do, like figuring whatever Jingle was trying so hard to protect.

I don't pay attention when our wizened little district escort pulls the boy's name out of the bowl.

"Aden Hanran!" she barks definitively.

My first thought is of my family, how Lena, Logan, and Hunter will do without me. I know they have the others to protect them, but what if my twins grow up without a father? Sure they were an accident, but I love them so much. I fight back the tears as I rise to the stage, and play the overused card of fake confidence as the cameras roll. I know the capitol will be looking for a show, and I intend to give them the one they deserve for ripping me from my kids.

I wink at Lena in the crowd, who looks absolutely mortified. She puts on a fake smile too as she receives the wink, and she kisses the air and blows it toward me. I feel something hard poke into my side, and I look down at Magenta as she sizes my worth. Mumbling something, the old hat proceeds to fish out the next name, all the while I'm thinking about my family, the real one and the one that took me in.

"Joana Oakling!"

From the stage, I can see some tiny girl quivering in her place. Her parents' sobs can be heard clearly thanks to the eerie silence of the reaping. As Joana makes her way to the stage, someone from Lena's section, the seventeen-year old girls, bursts forward.

"I volunteer!" The mysterious girl shouts. I am taken aback, mostly due to her luxurious green dress and beautiful complexion. I don't know why the older girl volunteered, but Joana nearly runs into her parents' arms as the new girl takes to the sage.

One of the victors behind me breaks into a catastrophic sob. Turning my head, I watch as Celeste Brightwood holds Khalyssa Redwyne back with an iron grip. I don't why Khalyssa is freaking out, but when I look at this volunteer girl, I understand why. They are sisters.

As Magenta asks for her name, I also make not of the fiery red hair atop this newcomer's head, much like my own.

"We match," I say with a smirk as she sizes me up and down.

"Well, there you have it, ladies and gentleman of District Eight; I present to you your tributes for the 49th Hunger Games, Aden Hanran and Daedrya Redwyne!" Magenta does her best at a shout, and the crowd is as unresponsive as ever, grim faces steady on our departing figures.

I shake my head at Lena as I enter the Justice Building, and she gets the message. She will not come to see me, she will not kiss me one last time before I board the train to what is most likely my death, and she will not get to say goodbye. That's the problem with being a rebel; you can never do anything public except blend in at the reapings. They become acquainted with your face, who you are. Lena knows it would be too much of a risk, and leaving Hunter and Logan without both of their parents would be too hard of a blow for one day.

* * *

Upon entering, I catch up with Celeste.

"No one will be coming to see me," I stammer.

"Well then, you can just come with me," she does her best at a smile.

After what seems like an eternity but actually a few minutes, Daedrya emerges from her mourning room.

"They're busy with your sister," Celeste informs my district partner as she joins us, referring to the lack of peacekeepers. I let Daedrya board the train first, and follow between her and Celeste. I don't know why Daedrya volunteered, whether this is some gamble at fame or a surefire way of suicide. I don't really care either, because at the heart of the matter, Daedrya is only one thing. An obstacle between me, and seeing my family again.

**I love Daedrya's nobility (although I'm never quite sure how to spell her name) and just the ties that Aden has to District Eight. Nine is next! I know I've been bad lately with my late update and all, but please read and review! I know it means the world to all of us authors, and if you are reading this story and not reviewing, SHAME ON YOU! Hehehe...XD, so yeah, you know what to do.**

**~AdmiralBobbery**


	12. District 9 Reapings-Orphans and Outcasts

**A/N: Alright, so I've decided that due to poor reviews and lack of support, I'm going to keep these reapings short. I'm just a bit down with this story lately.. I really wanted this thing to take off and after the success of my first story and the initial success of this one; things appeared like they would be a lot easier. If you are enjoying this story, please let me know, and if I've done anything wrong as of late, please identify that as well. So, here it is, District Nine.**

* * *

**Omri Grain**

**District Nine- Male**

**Courtesy of Saltey**

* * *

Filing into line, I brush my musty black hair out of my eyes. I haven't had a shower today, and the stench of sweat rises off my body and up to my nose. I had meant to shower, but Barric had wanted to practice slinging, so I decided against my personal hygiene. Behind me, Zea squeezes my fingers in an act of anxiety, nervous for her first year. I've only been eligible once before and today I fear I might not be as lucky as last year.

Mazie and Aluma are at the front of the line, and although I can't see them I know the twins are nervous. I whisper a prayer under my breath as we leave the house, hoping fortune will shine through for me. Miss Katz clucks her tongue like the head house hen, waving her arms by her side in some swanky parade manner. Always trying to be stylish, poor Miss Katz doesn't realize you can't be classy and run an orphanage.

Yep, I live in an orphanage.

So do all my friends, although they are more like my brothers and sisters. I don't know where my original family is, nor have I ever met them. I was left on the steps of the Katz House as a baby, with only a first name. Taking me in as another one of her orphans, Katarina Katz oversaw my transformation from babe to child to teenager. I'm thirteen years old now, but I still live under the aegis of Miss Katz and her dank orphanage. I've managed to make some friends though, and most of us have the same surname, Grain. It's given to any child who shows up at this house without a last name, and with grain as the staple of our poor district economy, it only seems fitting.

So as we depart for the reaping, only those of us who are old enough to be reaped in tow, Miss Katz counts our heads as we file out the door. Swooping in behind us, the hanging ends of her drooping sweater like musty wings, Miss Katz closes the door of the orphanage and herds us out into the burning sunlight. Leaving one of her maids, who don't do much cleaning, to govern the place, Miss Katz locks the door and leads on us.

Reaching the square, my brown eyes burn as the sun bears down on them. I've always found the horrors of the game a bit fascinating, what with the luxurious displays by the capitol and flamboyant garb of its citizens. I don't tell the other children, but I secretly wish I could live there, and be free from the squalor that dominates District Nine. We are here a bit early, and the peacekeepers and capitol attendants are still raising the banners and making sure all the lights and cameras are positioned perfectly. Raising a large sheet of projection screen to the top of a metal rise, two peacekeepers clamber down the rungs as they finish their job. On stage, our only victor takes his place and the mayor is conversing with a flustered capitol attendant.

"Now dearies, come right here to me when the reaping is done, and if any of you get picked, remember to say my name loud and clear when you reach the capitol. We want those people up top to know what a wonderful job I'm doing with all of you," Miss Katz winks at us as she talks.

"Miss Katz, why did we have to take so much tesserae this year?" Mazie asks quietly, clutching her sister's hand tightly. "Doesn't that make it easier for you to get picked?"

"Now dearie," Miss Katz begins, "Just because taking tesserae puts you in a bad spot, it does nice things for the younger children," she says in a sickeningly sweet voice.

"But…" Aluma begins but Miss Katz shoos her away to the awaiting peacekeeper, sashaying off to some unknown realm of District Nine. We don't much of the layout of District Nine because we aren't really allowed to leave the orphanage. Following Barric into the thirteen year-old boys section, we smile and wave at Mazie, Aluma, and Zea as they break off into their respective sections.

"I'm scared," Barric whimpers.

"I'm sure it'll be fine," I reply.

"We've just taken so much tesserae," he says back.

I give up, and instead focus on the mayor as he reaches the microphone. An emaciated man, the mayor always looks like a ghost and hardly ever makes public opinions. Reaching a bony hand up to the microphone, the mayor speaks with a raspy voice, "Now, we've got a special video all the way from the capitol for you, so pay close attention."

As the projection rolls, the images of happy families and smiling babies permeate my vision. However, the President's voice laments throughout the slideshow and soon the images of war, desperation, and hunger are thrown up on the screen. Describing the rebellion as a catastrophe and explaining how the capitol shows mercy by conducting the Hunger Games, my desire to see the capitol leaves me for a moment. As the cameras quit rolling, I look up at the mayor with a new sense of anger in my eyes. As the skeletal man fades into the background our district escort comes forth.

"Welcome, welcome," Celebus Krex, our flashy escort croons. "I think you all know what time it is, it's time to pick one very lucky boy and girl to participate in this year's Hunger Games!" His voice is grand in tone and his arms spread wide, as if welcoming an old friend. Strutting over to the boy's bowl, Celebus sticks a genetically mutated hand, the color green, into the glass. Pulling out a single slip, Celebus shouts,

"Omri Grain!"

Frozen, I can't force any muscle in my body to move. I don't want to get up there, I want to turn and run back to Miss Katz's house and hide in the corner of the basement. I've never wanted to go to capitol so badly, yet stay so far away from it now. Someone grabs me; I guess it's a peacekeeper. On stage, the tears stream down my face, hot at first but then they pick up a strange coldness. Celebus pats my shoulder and smiles brightly, his multi-colored flesh frightening me a great deal.

"Well, why don't we pick the girl now," he says in the same dazzling tone.

"Cynthia Pratt!" Celebus cries.

I don't bother to look at Cynthia, I don't want to. All I know is that she is now my enemy, and the last thing I want to do is get to know her. The people in the square look up at us, and I catch the eyes of Aluma, Barric, Mazie, and Zea. They all are crying, each one of my friends shedding silent tears. I can't help but mirror them, and as Cynthia and I are herded into the Justice Building by Celebus, the mayor, and our single victor, I cry out for my family, my real one. I just want to know home.

We can't speak to one another, the five of us. We just sit in a tight circle and hold each other and weep. It is Barric who speaks first.

"You're really good with a slingshot," he mumbles.

"Yeah," Mazie says, "You always knock down every bottle."

"You're fast," Zea compliments, "Real fast."

"They can't catch you if I can't," Aluma tries her best to sound reassuring.

"What if they don't have a slingshot?" I wail, "And I can't kill anyone."

"Hope," Barric says, "Hope is your weapon. Hope for a future and hope to return, it's all you've got."

Those words, coming from such a young boy, root themselves in my brain. Hope can be strong, and with it I can carry myself throughout these games. Miss Katz doesn't come to see me, she doesn't care about us, we're marketable, and we're a salary. The emolument she fetches off of us is little, but for each new orphan that enters the Katz House, the government boosts her pay check for living costs. As the peacekeepers cart my friends out the door and lead me to the train, I wish I was walking with them. I'm not though, and instead I am walking towards what is most probably my doom.

* * *

**Cynthia Pratt**

**District Nine- Female**

**Courtesy of The Phantom of the Labyrinth**

* * *

First of all, I hate my name. My mother thought it would be nice, to give her daughter a pretty little name to go with her pretty little face. I don't go by Cynthia, and because my middle name is shiny sparkly Emerald, I don't go by that either. I go by a name I chose for myself, one that I discovered suited me much better than any name my mother could stamp on me. Ember.

As I pull myself out of the washtub, my dyed hair spilling behind my back in a soaking curtain, my mind is boggled with the thoughts of another reaping day. I've taken a lot of tesserae this year, and I think the odds aren't really in my favor. Brushing my long black hair down to the middle of my back, I calculate how much time there is before now and the reaping. Slipping into my silky black pants and fleece jacket, I quietly sneak out the back door and onto the back roads of District Nine.

Keeping low and to the left, I duck into an enclave shrouded by overgrown brambles. The district is quiet today, so I presume that a lot of game will be enjoying the warmth of the morning. Removing the bow off my back and loading it with a carefully strung arrow, I start to look for signs of any life. Coming across some freshly laid scat; I identify the feces as squirrel and keep a look out for the owner. Suddenly, I hear a the sprightly chuckle of a squirrel to my left, and turning quickly but silently I see the critter bouncing up the bark of a not too far away sycamore tree. Drawing back my arrow, aiming for the creature's eye, I do my best to keep silent. Then, when I'm sure my arrow will meet its target, I let the projectile loose. Sailing through the forest, cutting the air like a warm knife would butter, the arrow doesn't make a sound as it penetrates the iris of the squirrel. Crashing to the ground, landing with a tiny thud on some dead leaves, the squirrel twitches once and then stills. Not bothering to go to my prize yet, I scan the area for any more squirrels, and find two more in some hollowed out oak. Adding the two to my bounty, I claim the spoils and trudge home. It seemed like it took only moments but I had obviously been gone for over thirty minutes, because when I get back, Susan is waiting impatiently for her hair to be braided.

Susan is my twin sister, Susan Sapphire Pratt, and although she is extremely annoying at best, I love her to death. I'm older by a minute, and Susan doesn't let me forget it. She acts like I'm the older sister every girl has dreamed of having, but we are the same exact age.

"Cynthia! I told you I wanted you to braid my hair this morning!" Susan tries her best to emulate our mother's anger. Not like my mom is angry a lot, but she just gets hot-tempered when something she envisions goes awry. Susan also uses my first name, which I hate.

"Well, would you like your belly full or your hair braided?" I ask as I lay the squirrels on the cleaning rack.

"Oh God, don't touch those things before you do my hair," Susan pinches her nose in disgust.

"If I don't clean them now, they might spoil," I say in defense of my hunting.

"I'll just get mom to do it," Susan doesn't think twice as she leaves the kitchen and heads to our mother's bedroom.

"Susan!" I call after her, but I already can hear her and mother talking.

Angrily, I strip the skin clean off of the first squirrel, revealing the veiny pink mass of guts and blood. Taking out the good portions of the meat and depositing the waste into a double-sealed bag, I skin all three squirrels and toss the remnants in the garbage outside. Making sure the bags are tied tight so the smell doesn't escape, I'm more worried about scavengers over cleanliness. Washing my hands in the kitchen sink as I return, I turn to see Susan twirling for me with her hair in a fishtail.

"Doesn't it look nice," she coos as she spins for me.

"Better than I could've done," I say begrudgingly.

"Cynthia," she pleads, "Don't say that."

"It's true," I state as I take off my gloves and toss them in the wash bin.

"Cynth…" she begins but I cut her off.

"I'm going to go put on my dress, and then we'll go," I don't listen to her concern as I make my way to my room, and strip off the morning's hunting clothes. My emerald green eyes contrast the simple black skirt, but I still manage to find some scrap of my beauty in my presentation. Coming back out, Susan pretends to be blown away by my looks while I can hear mother rummaging in her room.

"Is she coming?" I ask in a flat tone.

"Cynthia…don't ask too much," Susan begins.

"I'm only asking for my mother to be there if I'm whisked away to the capitol without a drop of warning to die amongst twenty-three other children," I say with a snarky voice.

"That wasn't nice…" I cut off Susan once more as she speaks.

"I don't give a damn what's nice Susan, I'll tell you what's nice. Having a mother that isn't shooting morphling!" With my stern answer, I stride out the door.

"Cynthia!" Susan calls out.

"My name is Ember!" Is all I can say in reply.

* * *

At the square, Susan joins me in the sixteen-year old girl section. "Mother is here," she says with hurt in her voice. I could care less at this point, if it took six years and a personal meltdown to draw my mother from her cave of anxiety, then I don't have to care. Just because my father died doesn't give her an excuse to turn to morphling and ruin our family. The only reason we live is because I hunt every morning. Without me…without what I can do…they'd be dead.

My thoughts cloud the initial processes of the reaping, but I am sharply awoken by something unexpected.

"Cynthia Pratt!" Celebus Krex shouts to the district.

"No…" Susan says quietly, and then the tears start to stream down her face. "No!"

As I reach the stage, I begin to break down again. Tears flow down my face, and it's not because I am going to capitol, or that I have been reaped for the Hunger Games. It's because without me, my mother and Susan will die. I care for my mother, inside me deep somewhere, and knowing that all three of us are doomed to die within a short amount of time kills me in a way unimaginable. My heart begins to tear at the seams of sinew as Celebus leads me and the boy I missed into the Justice Building. District Nine only has one victor, but I don't even know their name.

Inside, Susan comes to see me, and so does my mother.

"Oh Cynthia, what will we do without you," Susan wails as the tears continue to fall. Something within me screams to be horrifically blunt about the predestined affair, and the words that come off my tongue are rooted deep in my brain.

"You'll die," I say objectively.

"W-what?" Susan gasps for air.

"You can't hunt, mother can't work, you'll die," I say simply.

"She's right," my mother says the first words she's said around me in a while.

"We have to work together Susan, our lives depend on it. You and I, we'll find something, we'll make it work," my mother's eyes seem to glaze over and then I can almost see a small veil of despair shatter in her retinas. The look of misery and moping fades into the strong fire of hope. My mother hasn't quit on our family now, she's started believing.

"You hunt, get a bow," my mother instructs to me, regarding my plan for the games.

"I was counting on that," I smile weakly.

Reaching her fingers to her neck, my mother removes a necklace with a small crystal heart from herself. Clasping the jewelry around my neck she whispers, "Be strong."

I will, for my sister, and for my mother. Until today, I didn't have a single drop of hope in me for myself or my family. I guess that's what made me into the bitter Cynthia that I am. I've been calling myself Ember, but I haven't truly been the small fire that I sparked by individuality and ability. I'm that small fire now, and oh how the capitol will watch me grow into the most dazzling inferno this nation has ever seen.

* * *

**There it is. District Nine. Please leave a review, it would be the world to me! Although the reapings are shorter now, I still believe the characters are full of inspiration and virtue. Let me know what you think, if I should keep going, what I should change if anything, it's good to receive feedback. Check out my other stories as well and keep up the support that you're giving! **

**Thanks All**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


	13. District 10 Reapings- On the Way Home

**A/N: Wow! I want to thank everyone for all of the support! You guys have truly inspired me to continue, and I plan on seeing this story out to the end. All of the kind words and praise really made me smile and pushed me to write the best possible story I can for all of you! Please keep it up! In thanks, I will be responding to reviews from now on at the end of each chapter, so look for your name if you leave a review. We are getting close to the capitol, so the sponsor shop will open quite soon! Keep on posting in those bloodbath forums! Currently, Nero is losing! If you don't want poor Nero to meet some odd misfortune at the beginning of the games, then go post your favorite tribute in the bloodbath forums! I just can't believe how many reviews came off of last chapter, thanks to each and every one of you! So here we go...District Ten!**

* * *

**Roger Shimhill**

**District Ten- Male**

**Courtesy of RainEpelt**

* * *

"Roger!" My mother calls, waking me from my slumber. I don't want to get out of bed, so I slip the woolly comforter of my head and pretend as if I've drifted off to sleep once again. My act works, until someone drops a boulder on top of me, snatching my breath away and causing me to jerk from my recumbent position. Or so I thought it was a boulder, but in reality, it's my younger brothers, Kelvin and Kingsley.

"Wake up!" They chime together, pressuring me to rise from my comfy bed.

"You could have just asked," I say, tussling their short black hair as I collect myself. Making my way out of the room and down to the kitchen with Kelvin and Kingsley in tow, I can smell the wafting sent out pork as I arrive.

"I called for you," my mother says without turning around from the stove. She is busy cooking the pork, and I grumble a reply, "I was tired from all the work yesterday."

"Well, your father is outside, and he needs you to feed Caramel before we go to the reaping," My mother says in response.

I had forgotten about the reaping, and I comply with a shrug as I leave my brothers behind. The morning sun hits my eyes with a blast of refulgent gold, and I squint to block the singing view. I can see my father; his name is Roger too, tossing bales of hay from a wheelbarrow into the small barn we own. There, I can find my sister's stupid horse and feed her. Although I'd rather watch her starve.

I love animals, I really do. Except I only love them when they have purpose or bring me pleasure. For example, the pigs and cows and sheep serve us as food, so we benefit from their presence. Although my dog, Roscoe, doesn't have a true purpose, he's like a member of the family to me, so he can stick around. But Caramel doesn't serve a purpose. We have no soil to till and we have no reason to ride her anywhere. Plus, she brings me no pleasure, only swats me with her tail. So if Caramel were to go tomorrow, then I wouldn't have a single complaint.

As I reach the barn, my father barks out a rough greeting and my eyes find Caramel. We've been enemies from day one, ever since Daisy got her for her birthday when she was eight. Daisy is the youngest child, and my sister. She adores Caramel, and Caramel loves her back. But Daisy doesn't feed her or shovel her copious piles of shit. I do, and it sucks.

"Morning," I grunt to Caramel, who swishes her tail in annoyance of my presence.

"I could just throw all this feed in the river," I threaten, completely serious. Caramel, the dumb bay, levels her eyes and snorts. She knows I'm here to give her food, and would no sooner reject my offering that break her own legs. Putting the grainy feed in her trough, I also change her murky water. Caramel looks up, possibly in thanks, but I don't notice. Leaving the horse behind, I walk out the barn and nearly smash into my father.

"Watch it son," my dad advises calmly, moving around me as he goes to put his pitchfork up.

"Big day today," he says while he hangs the tool on the rack.

"Yeah, could be anyone, I'd rather it be me over Dahlia," I admit glumly.

Dahlia Shimhill, my beautiful and brilliant sister. Eighteen years old, is the oldest of me and my siblings, and today is her last day eligible for these sick games. My mother and father have put a big dinner together for tonight when we come back from the reaping, to honor Dahlia's success. Smartest in her class at the school, Dahlia aspires to become a veterinarian in the medicinal quarter of the district. It's a necessary job, as District Ten requires its livestock to be healthy in order to survive. I on the other hand, don't even go to school. I dropped out long ago, and have settled with being a ranch hand for the remainder of my life. With a little something on the side.

While my father makes his way back to the house, I slip around the back of the barn and dig up what I've been working on. My projects are normally small, but I'm building this one for Aroma, the mayor's daughter. Aside from helping my dad, I practice woodworking, and I've made quite a few sculptures. This one is of a horse, reared and calling to the setting sun, detailed to the finest points. Aroma doesn't now I like her, but a guy has to start somewhere. It's almost done, and I admire my handiwork with a smile as my eyes graze over the horse's frozen mane and giant teeth.

"Roger! Breakfast!" My mother calls from the porch, and I hide the statuette once more and go back to the house. I don't want my family to know about my talent just yet, I don't want to something to happen to me before I can open up a shop. I would hate for my family to watch my talent die, because it could possibly bring in some money. So I've decided I'm going to wait until I'm eighteen to unveil my work, and until then just keep it a guarded secret.

* * *

Everyone is seated at the oak table and my mother dishes out helpings of eggs and pork for everyone. Dahlia sits next to Daisy, both of them with the sandy hair of our mother. Every single one of us have brown eyes though, but me and my brothers got my dad's black hair. Kelvin and Kingsley giggle incessantly as they make snorting sounds, regarding the pig on their plate.

"Boys," My mother snaps as she sits down, and the two stop their mischief.

"Why don't we pray," My father says, and everyone grabs the hands on their left and right.

"Father God," my father begins, "Today we gather under you to ask for strength as two of our children face the mighty weight of the capitol, though it's might pales in comparison to yours. We ask that you guide our daughter, Dahlia, to safety today as she challenges the reaping one more time, while our son Roger needs your strength as well. We ask that this food before us gives all of us the strength we need to make it through today's many perils, and in your name we pray," We all say it together, "Amen."

Breakfast is quick, and my mother gathers the plates and deposits them in the sink, claiming she'll clean them when we get back. Before we go, Camille from next door arrives, to watch over Kelvin, Kingsley and Daisy while we're out.

"God be with you," Camille says behind us as my father, mother, Dahlia and I exit the kitchen and go out into the sunshine. Reaching the square, my mother and father hugs us tightly as Dahlia and I separate towards our respective groups. Joining the ranks of the other fifteen-year olds, I listen quietly as the video rolls. Depicting horrible images of the rebellion, the capitol seal flashes in the corner, reminding us of our servility. We are no more people than possessions.

When the video ends, Diaphana Minkmere, our district escort, takes to the stage. She is dressed in some garish ensemble of pink and sea green, and her outfit is revolting. As her claw digs into the boys bowl, she finds a slip of paper and reads the name aloud.

"Roger Shimhill!"

The district is silent as I reach the stage, my arms are shaking and my brow begins to catch the sweat dripping off my forehead. I'm sure they can tell in the capitol, I am terrified.

"Ruci Nonabi!" Diaphana calls the girls name.

Together, we are herded into the Justice Building, much like we do our goats every day. Except today, I am no longer the master. I am but a wee lamb, waiting for the slaughter.

* * *

My mother is in shambles and my father embraces my strongly. There are no words, only silent prayers and tears and comfort. Before we can muster any courageous thoughts or feelings, the peacekeepers whisk my parents away. Dahlia comes in, and her eyes aren't glazed with tears like my parents were.

"Goodbye Roger," Dahlia says, trying to keep her calm.

"Bye sis," I say, both knowing I won't see her again.

It's all we say, and before I know it, District Ten is far behind me.

* * *

**Ruci Nonabi**

**District Ten- Female**

**Courtesy of RubyJewel230**

* * *

I've never left District Ten. All my life, I've watched the countless flocks of sheep graze the verdant fields of District Ten and all my life I've wished my existence could be so simple. Just follow the bellwether, and make my way to the pasture every evening. That's a life I could be content with, but this. This turmoil and constant wondering if your name will be picked to die, well that's something I've always considered just plain wrong. If you ask me, I'd never want to leave District Ten. And I pray I never have to.

My black hair burns as I step out into the scorching sun. I scan the flock with my mousey brown eyes, and I count the sheep in the flock one by one, totaling twenty-three. Satisfied with our count, I turn on my heels back into the home that my brother, mother and I share.

"Ruci baby," My mother coos as she rolls out dough on the counter, "Hand me that rolling pin." Answering her request, I pass the cylindrical, wooden object over to her and look over her shoulder at what she is doing. My mother is making _sorgia_ a pastry dish we always eat on the morning of reapings. The dough is thick and sweet, basted with honey from the beekeeper's best. My mother is good friends with the beekeeper, so we've always got plenty of sweet honey. The _sorgia_ is an outer layer of this sweet bread, and the inside is filled with delicious cream. That's not all though, the _sorgia_ is then laced with cinnamon and if we can get it, powdered sugar, from the baker's wife. The pastry is delectable, and it's got to be one of my favorite treats.

"Go get Reggie sweetie," My mother asks of me, inquiring to the whereabouts of my six-year old brother.

I find him in his room, staring at the wall.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask with a bit of a playful tone to my voice. Reggie's skin is as black as night, but mine is much more fair, due to my biracial nature. His finger's reach up and grab onto mine.

"You gonna get picked today Ruci?" It's a statement, but he phrases it like a question. "For the big game?"

"It's not a game you want to play Reggie," I answer.

"Why not?" He asks so innocently.

"Because there are monsters, waiting around every corner, trying to eat you up," I say in my scariest voice. The histrionics work, and Reggie soon shies away from talking about the games and wonders aloud what's for breakfast.

"Let's go find out," I say with a smile.

The strawberry colored streak in my hair dangles in front of my eye, and I brush it back behind my headband, trying to keep it from obscuring my vision. My red streak and my headband are little parts of me, showing who I am. The headband is embroidered with a gold mockingbird on it, and the leather of the headband is worn. It was a gift from Darius, before he died.

Darius was Reggie's father, and my mother's first husband. They had met here in District Ten, Darius was a ranch hand and my mother was a shepherd at the same farm. They married in the spring, and the wedding was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Darius didn't treat me differently; he knew where I was from and took me in as his own daughter. Nothing changed when Reggie was born, Darius still loved us both equally.

Until one day, Darius had a coughing fit at breakfast, and his crimson blood splattered against the meal my mother and I had put together. Something was deadly wrong with his lungs, and he just kept on coughing up blood. We tried to take him to the nurse down the road, but he died before we could get there. Someone called it red cough, saying his lungs got infected with something bad. We never learned though, still haven't.

Darius was not my father; I've never had a father. See, my birth wasn't exactly something done in passion or in permission.

I was conceived out of rape.

My mother never speaks about it, but she loves me with all her heart. I can tell by her smile and her words, she's never counted me as a curse. She is this way now, as we make our way to the reaping. My mother holds Reggie's tiny fingers in her hand as we reach the district square. Everyone is wearing their working clothes, as it is only morning and people still have things to do after the early festivities.

"Well," our district escort begins, "Time to select this year's tributes." Diaphana has done this a hundred times, and it seems as if she's beginning to lose her charm, tiring almost.

"Roger Shimhill!" She calls out to the crowd, and a pretty good looking boy takes to the stage. He's about my age, but a bit younger. I am currently standing in the sixteen-year old section with the other girls, and I the fear is starting to settle in. I know I can be strong though, if my name is called.

"Ruci Nonabi!"

Strength is funny though. When you say you're going to have it, and when the time comes, it leaves you like a phantom in the night. My legs are wobbly and I rise to the stage, not letting the peacekeepers touch me. There is no victor present, we've never had one.

"Ladies and Gentleman! You're tributes for this year's Hunger Games!"

* * *

"Oh Ruci baby," My mother is sobbing as she and Reggie cling to me. We weep together, and I know I probably won't see them again. I can't think like that though, I refuse to think like that.

"You've taught me to forage mom, I'll make the best of what we've got," I say to her.

It's true, my mother taught me to forage, so I could survive if anything happened to her. Now the time has come, and I must answer my call. I won't let the other tributes know though, they might kill me if they learn I'm worth something, well, kill me too soon that is.

"Be strong baby," my mother pleads.

I'll be strong, and as my mother and brother are ripped from hands I hear Reggie speak, "Where's Ruci going mama?"

"Home baby, home," is all my mother can say.

I don't get it at first, but I know what my mother means. The Hunger Games is just a stop in my journey, my journey back home.

* * *

**Saltey: Thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked my presentation of Omri. The capitol is close, so the fun will begin soon! Thanks for the support :)**

**RainEpelt: Well, District Nine is bland, but the tributes will get more in depth once they're given more spotlight. Thanks for keeping me looking forward, and I'm glad you're enjoying the story! **

**richards25: I'm glad you like Omri, he does have an interesting background and the last name fits well for his situation. There are so many good tributes, I just don't know what to do with everyone at this point, but you haven't seen the last of him. Everyone is saying that about Cynthia, and I do agree that her presentation is Katniss-esque but I have worked to develop her character in the capitol chapters. Soon you'll see that dear Ember is quite like Miss Katniss, in a lot of ways.**

**DementedKawaiiKitten: You are so wonderful, you've left a review like every time and what you have to say about this story is so great! My goal is to have 75 reviews before we reach the capitol, and I think I can do that. You're right about how SYOT's die and I'm taking this story to the end. Thanks for all you've said about this story, it really motivates me!**

**nightfuries: I still can't believe you're reviewing my story, you are such an inspiration to me! Thanks for liking Omri, a lot of people like his last name, so do I :) Cynthia is indeed complicated, and her feelings for her mother and family will be explored later on. There's just so much plot to 24 unique individuals so I'm saving some things for capitol chapters and including more in the reapings for others. There are things coming up that everyone will be shocked or relieved to learn, so I'm excited for the capitol. Only 2 more! Woo! Your kinds words inspire me to keep writing and thanks so much for everything you've said so far.  
**

**pr1ncess1: Omri has mixed reviews, which I'm glad for. I want some people to be rooting for tributes and I want others to despise them. Cynthia is disliked by many so far, but I'm glad you're a supporter of her. Thanks for what you said about my writing skills and I'm glad you are enjoying the story!**

**The Phantom of the Labyrinth: I'm so glad you liked the way I wrote your tribute! I'm sorry if I presented her to be too Katnissy like a bunch of people are saying, but I promise her character will expand in her own direction later. Thanks so much for your motivational words!**

**Please keep up that fantastic Reading and Reviewing!**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


	14. District 11 Reapings- Darkness in Pride

**A/N: Do not fear, for I am alive! Sorry, but I was really busy what with my actual life and all about two weeks ago, and then for the past week I've been on a mission trip in Mississippi. Furthermore, I took a lot of time planning the male tribute for this district due to the fact that the one submitted was deemed inappropriate for the sake of you readers. Some of the themes expressed in the submission were too much for this story and would creep into darker realms, even for the Hunger Games. Upon further review, it was rejected and to spare time, I planned my own tribute. Also, the pair for District Twelve have both been axed due to lack of true background and character from the submitters and I have filled in those positions with previously denied submissions. Also, please help me reach my goal of 75 reviews before the reapings are over, that's just five between the next two chapters! So when you're done, please review! Alright, that was lengthy, but here is…District Eleven**

* * *

**Auric Zola**

**District Eleven- Boy**

* * *

I can hear the rain pounding on the roof, incessant and heavy. In my heart I pray that the torrent washes away the reaping, but I know that it takes more than rough weather to redirect the agenda of the capitol. This is good though, the orchard needs the rain, or so Melodia says. I wouldn't know, I just started working in the orchard and I haven't seen the full effects of the drought. We haven't had rain for what's seemed like a month here in eleven, and it's ironic that the heavens open on the day of the reaping. At least to me it is.

The rain makes me groggy, so I find it hard to bring myself to the watching room. That's what we call it, since the only thing that happens in there is either the small talk my mother and I share or the viewing of the Hunger Games. A single worn couch rests on the damp floor. There must be a leak in the roof, again. My mother sits there, eyes blank and staring at the wall.

"Auric," she whispers, barely audibly.

"Morning," I say, my voice rife with a shaky nervousness I didn't know was there.

"It's going to be you, I know it, I know it," her voice breaks as the whisper rises.

"Mom, you don't know that," I try to console her but my efforts are futile.

"It's only my first year," I try and use that card to my advantage. My name is in the bowl once, no tesserae needed, our neighbor Alphae supplies us with enough grain to feed the two of us.

"Mom I have to go," I say as I notice the hands of the clock near nine, the time of the reaping.

"Auric," she whispers once more, slowly rising to accompany me on the wet walk to the square.

* * *

District Eleven has one victor, Xenovius Kristermere. His name is associated with words like insane, brilliant, diabolical, genius, maniacal, and bright. Xenovius Kristermere won the Hunger Games in a matter of minutes. The capitol was furious, worst games ever they had called it up in the capitol. All of the gamemakers were executed on television and Xenovius had his whole family killed. Young, spry and limber, he jumped backwards far enough off his platform to avoid the explosion and set off mines on several other podiums. Many jumped backwards and forwards in fright. The ones who survived were killed in what little of a bloodbath there was and in the ash and smoke Xenovius killed the only living career. Twenty-three children were gone in four minutes.

I can see him on the stage now, sitting in a dingy chair behind our district escort Floria Telmina. Her bright green ensemble hurts my eyes in the dreary weather. We stand in the pouring rain, and because of the downpour the movie from the capitol can't play. The mayor curtly introduces Floria and she begins the procedures.

The white wisps of Xenovious' beard are plastered to his chest in the rain. Floria's microphone works under the umbrella she is shielding herself with and she greets the soaking crowd.

"Lovely weather isn't it?" She asks, making a dry attempt at humor, despite the wet conditions.

No one replies, and she gets on with the show.

"Well, I suppose we'll begin with the boys," her satin voice sounds more like grinding cogs to me and fear begins to settle inside of me. I can see Melodia in the aisle across from me, her golden hair stuck to her shoulders and her cerulean eyes deadest on the stage. She is so beautiful; I can feel the flutters in my heart when I look at her. She doesn't know of my massive crush on her, nor do I think she ever will. Melodia is eighteen, and head of the section of the orchard I work on. She likes me because I'm small and nimble and climb the trees quickly, scooping up many oranges and apples with my deft hands. We don't share many words, save for conversation about the orchard. All these thoughts run through my mind, and the fear blots itself out with warm images of Melodia.

"Auric Zola!" Floria calls out to the crowd.

What? Wait a minute, don't I get to marry Melodia first? What's going to happen to my future? When do I get to impress Melodia with my apple-picking skills? No, not now. Not yet, I'm not ready. Wait, give me a year or two, then I can fight. I'm only twelve, there are kids six time my size wielding sharp daggers and beaming with crooked teeth just waiting to get a taste of my tender skin. The peacekeepers grab me, I wasn't able to get a move on quick enough for them I guess. I look around desperately, trying to get some last glimpse of Melodia before I take my place beside Floria. There she is, wait, she's crying! Why? Why doesn't she smile, why can't I remember her as happy?

Then I realize, it's not me she's weeping for. Her sister Amber is making her way through the crowd, and I'm guessing that she just got reaped. I didn't even hear Floria say her name. Guess I was too busy worrying about Melodia and I. Wait, get a hold of yourself Auric, there is no Melodia and you. There's only you and twenty-three other kids in this world now, and Melodia's sister happens to be one of them.

* * *

I am in the Justice Building, with only my mother.

"Auric, didn't I say this would happen?" My mother shakes her finger at me, as if she is teaching me a lesson like some frustrated schoolteacher.

"Mother, help me!" I cry, the tears instantly begin to stream down my face.

"No, I can't help you now, but remember, you must be strong for me Auric, come back to me and bring our district pride. There are only two kinds of people in this world, people who dream and people who do. Your father and I were different," My hearing skips a few words when she mentions dad, and my heart sinks in memory, "He was a doer, and Auric, all I've done as of late is dream."

My dad, Curiarc Zola died when I was eight. He caught some deadly virus, something my mother called the Black Cough. It's incurable supposedly, and he slipped away like the moonlight out of our lives. Since then, my mother has shut down, only whispering fears and wishes now and then. Most of them come true, whether they are fears or wishes. It's scarily odd, but my mother is a dreamer, and those dreams just happen to do.

"I'll try mother," I hoarsely reply between tears.

"You must do better than try for me Auric," my mother's voice is stern but caring, life pours back into her tone, and with it the will to fight emerges in me.

"Mother I can do more than try," I muster up a more energetic reply, "I will do."

My fate is sealed as she nods with brevity and the peacekeeper seizes her from my life. Like the passing of the day my mother is gone and I am left alone and scared. Courage and despair are an odd mixture, but the two clash inside of me. Someone is in the hall, Xenovious Kristermere, and the look on his face tells me he is sorry. Sorry we were reaped and sorry our lives our going to become darker by the minute. But there is a glimmer in the far reaches of Xenovius' eyes, a faint light that shines that harder I look. Something representing hope and the future, something representing life is there in his eyes, and I intend to reach it.

* * *

**Amber Liefson**

**District Eleven- Girl**

**Courtesy of SongOfTheBirds**

* * *

It's my second time today, facing the reaping bowl. I can remember last year so perfectly, I was trembling so hard I could barely form words. The looming thought that I would get picked clouded my mind all day and I couldn't even focus on my work for weeks prior to that. Then, when my name wasn't called and it was someone else, relief gushed into my pores and my heart rate settled. Then I remembered, I have to do this six more times before I'm safe, and today the nerves settle back in once more, reminding me of the horror that awaits me at the square.

It's not that I'm a worrisome baby all the time; I just don't want to die at this age. I have things planned for myself and for my family and I'm afraid that if I'm reaped then I won't be able to carry out those designs. I rub my fingers against the woven green anklet I wear everywhere, it reminds of my sister, Melodia. The oldest in our house in terms of children, today is Melodia's last time facing the reaping bowl, and eighteen is something I wish I was right now. I can hear the bells ringing, signaling to us that it's time to leave morning work and head to the square.

I'm reflecting on all of this high up in the apple orchard, where I spend most of my days picking and sorting the prime apples for the market. My sister Melodia runs this sector, and she's currently talking to some boy about something trivial like picking methods. I don't really care for proper form and expedient methods, I just know how I am going to get something done and then I do it that way. Melodia stands in the way of all of that, always trying to preen and pluck me of any imperfections and make me like her. What if I don't want to be like her? What if I want to be me?

Leaving the orchard, I can see my three brothers coming from the grape vines, dirty and tired. Perri is the youngest out of them, fourteen years old. Older than him is Grover at sixteen and his twin Seth. The three of them are laughing and smiling despite the obvious torpor in their steps and the hanging thought of the reaping. My three brothers never seem worried about anything though. Melodia is ahead of me now, and she leaves the boy she was talking with to head for the square with some of her older friends. I was hoping she would stop to walk with me, possibly take me to my section. Melodia isn't like that though; her love is distant, not affectionate and close.

* * *

Reaching the square, I don't want to face this impending darkness. This torture that requires me to wait amongst the sweaty and pubescent members of my gender and pray that I'm not shipped off to the killing floor. Steeling myself as I enter the square, I try to think of the fact that my parents will no doubt have something nice to eat in celebration of Melodia's success in dodging the Hunger Games. On the stage is that weird Xenovius Krister-whatever, watching us all with his goggle-like eyes. Scrutinizing each one of us, determining whether we are fit enough to win under his wing. His eyes stop on me for what seems like half a second and then flit on to a new specimen. His examination stops when the mayor decides to cut the movie due to the rain, something I hadn't even noticed in all this thought. Trudging here, my mind bogged down by thoughts of my death and my sister's lack of attentiveness towards me, I had barely noticed the downpour. I am soaked, and my raven black hair is nearly glued to my shoulders, back, and chest.

"Ladies and gentleman, the beautiful Miss Floria Telmina!" The mayor's voice booms as he welcomes our district escort. Her bright green ensemble is funny looking, and almost draws a laugh from me. Almost.

"Well, well, looks like our little parade is being rained on," Floria says, then looks up in shock, probably thinking her microphone wasn't on. Shades of cerise start to glow on her pale cheeks, and she moves on with the reaping.

Reaching her gloved hand into the boy's bowl, she picks a single slip and then reads the unlucky name aloud.

"Auric Zola!"

I have no idea who that is, but as the young boy who was talking with Melodia this morning takes to the stage, pangs of recognition and sadness hit my stomach. Someone I just saw this morning learning and wanting to grow is being stolen away from us so quickly, his existence is ephemeral now; it's only a matter of time. His scrawny build and childish figure won't allow him to last long, and as these thoughts cloud my mind, a new horror, completely distant from the woes of Auric Zola begins to dance in my brain.

"Amber Liefson!" Floria calls out, stunning my heart and causing me to gasp as if a ghost had just passed through my core. The blood in my veins freezes, each cell becoming an icy block of red.

No, no, no. I have aspirations. I have to make my family proud and wealthy before I die. Wait, wait, wait. Amber, get ahold of yourself. You can bring pride and glory to your family, you can do this, you can…hold on.

There's someone in this crowd, someone who should be rushing to the stage right about now. But she's not. As I climb up these infernal stairs and take the outstretched hand of Floria Telmina, my eyes dart to find Melodia's. She is ashamed, crying, not for me but for herself. She isn't strong enough to take my place, not physically but in her heart. She is weak and selfish, nothing like the bright light of genius and productivity like we see in the orchard. As Floria closes the unceremonious ceremony, I can't take my eyes off of Melodia, and out of the corner of them, I can see Xenovius looking me up and down, wondering what secret talents, if any, I hold.

* * *

"I don't know…," Melodia's apology is cut off by my harsh words.

"Go, get out, now," I bark definitively.

"Amber," my mother pleads, but I look into her golden eyes, they look exactly like mine.

"Little Miss Perfect can go now mom, I know my name was called, but it's her duty as my elder sister to take my place, not to watch her youngest sibling be sent to the slaughter. I'm sure Perri, Grover, and Seth would have taken my place if they could have," I'm screaming now, and my brothers all nod in agreement, tears stinging the edges of their usually unburdened eyes.

"Amber…," Melodia tries again but my father puts a hand on her shoulder.

"Go," he states firmly. Shock rises on her face, and she coldly walks out of the room, slowly and painfully.

"Amber dear, we love you very much," my father hugs me tightly and everyone else says reassuring words before the peacekeepers drag them away.

"Come home to us!" My mother cries out as she is taken away, and I intend to fulfill her promise, whether or not Melodia is there for me, I will come home and show them that I'm the one who should be giving my mother and father something to be proud about.


	15. District 12 Reapings- Sons and Daughters

**Icarus Cotton**

**District Twelve- Male**

**Courtesy of Palutenaet**

* * *

_Its days like these that cast worried looks and fearful expressions on the faces of those around me. I can't help but wonder, who will it be? Every day we pass by our neighbors in the Hub, conducting business and orchestrating sales, but we never take a moment to think about the transient nature of this world. One moment, a sprightly gathering of children could be gamboling in the field, and then, one of them is gone, whisked away by the Capitol. I know not of the Dark Days, I was not alive then. I know not of the Rebellion, I was not alive then. However, I know of one thing. These games, these infernal and disgusting Hunger Games, will bring us more misery than any rebellion ever could. Even now, I watch families weep and…_

"Hello! Anyone up there in that big ol' dome of yours?" Ecclesiastes asks with a smirk.

"I was in the middle of something," I say with an annoyed tone.

"Yeah, and the capitol is in the middle of destroying families, so we need to get a move on," Ecclesiastes barks roughly, nudging from my cross-legged position and nearly dragging me out of my loft. The book I was reading, _Reflections of a Mid-Century Philosopher on the Hunger Games, _tumbles to the ground, with the page still open.

"Hey! I was reading!" I try to reason with my brother, but he just laughs and brings me to the kitchen, where my mother and father are cooking breakfast and reading respectively.

"He gets to read," I whine to Ecclesiastes, pointing at my father's open newspaper.

"_He_ doesn't have to be somewhere important," Ecclesiastes points out, much to my dismay.

"Boys, the morning has just begun and we are already fighting?" My mother raises an eyebrow, turning from her work at the stove.

"He started it," I say as I point to my brother.

"I don't care who started it, your mother has made a nice breakfast for this morning and both of you will take a seat and stop your fighting," My father commands and we instantly obey. My father carries this dignified respect with him, he's not mean or overly strict, he's just someone you obey without question. My father is a lot older than most of my friend's fathers, but I can't complain. My father, Atticus Cotton, owns the Blackfoot Mining Company, and we arguably the richest in town, next to my friend Hera's mother's medicinal business.

My mother dishes the bacon, sausage, and eggs onto our plates and before Ecclesiastes and I can dig in, my father furrows his whitening brow. We anxiously wait for my mother to set the dishes back on the counter and then come to her seat, and once she does, we attack our breakfast. Rolling his eyes, my father has learned that teenage boys own black holes for stomachs, and doesn't try to reason with our eating habits. We're not fat by any means; both my brother and I are built and muscular, due to our excessive amounts of training.

It's true, those with the money in District Twelve can afford to train, and we are among those people. My father had a small training complex erected on the outskirts of town, so that his children and the offspring of the wealthy here in twelve could have a shot at bringing this district glory. Twelve has only won once, and our single victor lives a sequestered life in Victor's Village. It's the goal of my brother, Hera, and I to win the Hunger Games three years in a row, and bring glory and riches to District Twelve. No one takes us seriously, and I can't wait to prove the rest of Panem wrong.

"Icarus, are you alright darling?" My mother, Serena, asks politely. I must have been drowning in my thoughts, because I can almost see the glaze fall off of my eyes as I surface back to reality.

"I'm fine mother, just thinking, that's all," I say quickly, not wanting to worry her.

"Well boys," my father says, finishing up his meal, "You've got two hours until the reaping, I suggest you get in a bit more of training before we go to the square."

His comment nonplusses me, because we had agreed that since the time had come, we would spend the morning together, in case anything went wrong in the arena.

"But dad," Ecclesiastes begins, "What about you and mom; aren't we going to spend time together this morning?"

"No son, not today, your mother and I have figured that it would be best for you to exercise a bit more, that way you'll be nice and spry for the Hunger Games this year," he says firmly.

Wait a minute. Aren't I supposed to be going into the games this year? Ecclesiastes is next year and then Hera. What is my dad talking about? He knows our plan, he's aware of our dreams. Where is all this coming from?

"Dad, I'm going this year, remember?" I ask aloud.

"No," he says, his words carrying the weight of a steel ton in my stomach, "Your brother is going in this year, to bring this district glory." The words he speaks shock even my mother, and the look on her face lets me know she had no part in this new and hideous design. My father quickly rises from the table and hands his plate to my mother, who accepts it as one would accept a ticking time bomb. My father storms out of the room, seemingly annoyed at our resistance to his thinking. Ecclesiastes shoots me a terrified glance, and I know he's scared. He thought he would have an entire year to practice still, but now our father is forcing him into the Hunger Games earlier than he expected.

"Go on boys, I'm sure you still have time to do that training," my mother says, sounding hollow inside. It really doesn't matter who it is, Ecclesiastes or I, she's losing a son today.

"Let's go Icarus," my brother says, not looking at me. Before anyone can say another word, he drags me out into the sunshine and we are heading in a direction far from the training center.

"Where are we going?" I cry out, wondering where my angered brother is intending on taking us. He doesn't respond, but instead drags us throughout the back bends and swathes of District Twelve, until we reach the Gattlesfont Mansion. Alceldessa Gattlesfont sits in the front yard, tending to her rosebushes. Stunned as to why we've come here, I follow my brother into the grounds, keeping an eye out for Hera.

"Good morning boys," Mrs. Gattlesfont exclaims upon seeing us, "Hera is just inside, come to say goodbye before the big day Icarus?" It takes me a moment to realize she is talking to me, and all I can do is nod my head. These last ten minutes have been a whirlwind, and as Ecclesiastes wheels me inside the castle of a home, I can only wonder what we're going to do about the reaping.

"Hey," Hera says awkwardly, not expecting us to be at her house. Her long blonde hair is draped over her shoulders, and her bright blue eyes match perfectly with the cerulean dress her mother has picked out for her. She will look like a sapphire among coals at the reaping in a few hours, amongst the tarnished and soiled garbs of most of the residents of the district. We are a handful among few, and Hera chooses reaping days to show off her family's wealth. The Gattlesfont's have money, about as much as we do, yet they tend to be a bit showier.

"There's a problem," Ecclesiastes says hotly, "A big, big, problem."

"What's the matter?" Hera inquires, her blonde hair swishing back and forth as she looks back and forth between my brother and I.

"Our dad wants Ecclesiastes to volunteer this year, and as we all know," I shoot my brother a rough look as I talk, "He's not ready."

"About as ready as you are," he complains, "You spend so much time reading all of your philosophy and reflections, a bet I'm more prepared than you!"

"Boys!" Hera shouts, bringing both of us back to reality. "You know very well that you've been loafing around during training for the past few months Ecclesiastes, you thought you'd be safe for another year, and look where that's gotten you. There's only one option we have if we want to preserve this little plan of ours, and that's to blatantly disobey your father!"

Her words are tough, but true. Ecclesiastes and I exchange worried glances, and I know what's going to happen. It doesn't matter how much hate will brew as a result, I must go into the Hunger Games.

* * *

The square is filled with the poor, or more accurately all of District Twelve. Ecclesiastes and I receive hateful looks and spiteful scowls as we pass by the peacekeepers and make way for the fifteen-year old boys section.

"Hey look guys, it's the cotton balls," I can hear someone jeer, and I simply shrug off the remarks. People think we're absolutely pampered, but I'd like to see them be placed into the situation we are in. In our world, the Hunger Games are a stage of life. As we file in, our district escort comes out onto stage, her name is Esmeralda Trinket. All gussied up in chiffon and lace, her outfit looks like it's worth the collective salaries of District Twelve. As the presentation from the capitol begins to roll, my heart starts to flutter. The time is nearing.

"Well well," Esmeralda begins, "It's time to select one very lucky boy and girl to compete in the 49th annual Hunger Games!" Her grand words get no cheer or applause, and with an upset expressions she saunters over to the girl's bowl.

"Ladies first, and remember, may the odds be ever in your favor," Esmeralda says as she dives a powdered hand into the bowl. Fishing around for what seems like eternity, she removes the slip and speaks the unfortunate name.

"Sasha Galem!" She shouts, her shrill voice resonating throughout the square. Whoever Sasha is, she takes her place on the stage, and overall doesn't seem too terribly bothered. I wish I could be that strong, I wish my hands weren't shaking and my heart wasn't racing. It doesn't matter what name is pulled out of that bowl, my fate is sealed.

"For the boys," Esmeralda says coolly.

"Austin Bolton!"

"I volunteer!" I scream at the top of my lungs and race forward, leaving Ecclesiastes behind. Everyone is simply shocked, volunteers are unheard of in District Twelve. I don't even get to see who Austin is, I guess he never had time to reveal himself. Looking back out on the crowd I can Ecclesiastes, nodding a silent thank you to me. But farther back I can see my father, whose eyes dance with the flames of anger.

* * *

"What is this?" My father shouts, slamming his hand on the wall. "It was not your turn!"

"Who cares whose turn it is?" My mother shouts, brining silence to the room. "All three of you are guilty, guilty of conspiring to rip our family apart for the sake of glory. There are twenty-three other children aspiring to do the same thing, what difference does it make that Icarus is one of them. Be it Ecclesiastes or whoever you want it to be, it doesn't change the fact that the blood of our family will be spilt on national television, all so you can add more money to our overflowing wealth."

We are stunned, all of us. My father puts a hand on my shoulder and nods, then turns to leave the room. Ecclesiastes hugs me, tight and lovingly. After they both leave the room, my mother turns to me.

"Come back home Icarus," she says, "And take this." She hands me a bracelet, woven by my grandmother. My mother had always worn it for good luck, and now it's time I have a little of bit of just that. Slipping the woolen wristlet on, I hug my mother tight and she kisses both of my cheeks. Silent tears fall down our faces, and as she is taken from me, I can only think of coming home. Not for riches, not for glory, but for her.

* * *

**Sasha Galem**

**District Twelve- Female**

**Courtesy of CrazyChick224**

* * *

"Hey boys!" I flirtatiously call, sashaying over to the group of young men who are crowded together. Winking at the first one who turns around, I give my auburn ponytail a shake.

"Oh look guys, its Sasha," one of them says, and they all instantly turn around. Sliding my arms around the waists of two of them, I at once become part of the group. Boys are pigs, they'll do anything for their next meal, and I'm sure I'm looking rather tasty right now, if you know what I mean. Arm in arm, I saunter around the Hub with these boys around me, each one salivating over my curves and whatnot. I interchange my suitors, twisting around to envelope those who haven't had a chance to walk with me yet. By the time we reach the end of the Hub, I've had my arms around every single one, and unknowingly stolen all of their wallets.

"Well, I told my mother I would bring some bread home before the reaping, so I think I'll be on my way," I coo at them, making sure my hips sway as I walk away from them. I can feel their eyes still on me, and by the time I've reached the corner of the street, I'm well out of sight. Quickly turning I break into a run, kicking up dust as I speed down the dirt path. Making sure I weave in and out of every possible passerby and alleyway, the route to the Hub is long behind in a matter of minutes. Reaching our small shack of a house, I smile devilishly, knowing my mother and father will be proud.

Opening the door, I instantly spot them, at the table, eating some leftover squirrel.

"Ah Sasha, bring anything back?" My father, Iker, questions. His peculiar blue-white eyes focus on me, and he gives his shoulder-length brown hair a shake. My mother, Mae, has long red hair and bright blue eyes, and she trains them on me now as I set down the plethora of wallets I swiped.

"Very good, now open them up, how much do boys carry on them nowadays?" My mother asks with a wicked gleam in her eyes. Opening up the wallets, I watch as several notes and coins spill out onto the table. From a glance, I can tell we've managed to get enough to feed us for a while.

"Hmm, ten-twenty-thirty-forty-, Sasha darling, this is forty-four in total, that's excellent," My father beams, giving me a pat on the back. I always love when I make him proud, and stealing is one of the quickest ways to do that. We're not bad people; we just do what we have to do in order to survive in District Twelve. The rugged terrain and horrible market leave many in shambles, and my mother and father did not intend to end up like that when they first got married. When I was born, there was an extra mouth to feed, and so they trained me to be just like them, and now I'm better than the both of them combined.

"Mae sweetheart," my father says softly, "Put these in the deposit box while I make some more squirrel for Sasha." My mother takes the money from my father, but I hold up my hands in refusal.

"Sorry dad," I say with a grossed out look on my face, "I think I'll skip the squirrel."

"Come on Sasha, you know you have to eat," My father looks a little irritated.

"I just don't like the taste, I'll find something while we're out at the reaping, I'll be fine," I say, and I know it's true. Reaping day is one of the easiest occasions for stealing, because people leave their business unattended and their stalls out and open. It's literally the easiest thing ever. As I'm nearing eighteen years old though, more and more people are beginning to match my face with my talents, and it's becoming a bit harder if I can't woo my prey.

"We need to get a move on," my father explains, "Reaping starts soon." We don't really worry about reapings, just as long as we get a good haul. My mother puts the money away and together the three of us head out into the morning light, hoping to make some profit off of this day.

Everyone we pass falls to our tricks. Experts in pickpocketing and stealing, a Galem can simply walk by you and steal the clothes off your back. Cramming things into our pockets, we arrive at the square with bulging pants and innocent smiles. My load is significantly more than my parents though, because stealing is more than a survival tactic for me, it's a hobby. Sometimes, I'll just steal for fun, even if we don't need it. Sure, I get reprimanded, but I just love the feeling of having something that doesn't belong to you.

Making sure to conceal what I've plundered, I pass by the peacekeepers unnoticed, avoiding the pinprick and the blood sample. Slipping into the seventeen year-old girls section, I blend in perfectly with the others. My dark blue eyes scan my surroundings, and they light up when the district escort walks on stage. Baubles and trinkets dangle from her ears, wrap around her neck, and adorn her fingers. Oh what all of those things could sell for, we'd make a killing. The thought makes me ravenous to steal them, and as the video clip plays, all I can think about are the things Esmeralda Trinket wears. As the tape comes to a close and Esmeralda carries on with the show, nerves pass over the crowd. Children begin to grow worried and fear for their lives. I on the other hand, doubt seriously that I'll be reaped.

"Ladies first, and remember, may the odds be ever in your favor," Esmeralda says with a beaming smile, making me want to throw up. All I can think about is getting home and dumping all this stuff before some nosy peacekeeper notices my pockets look like they're swollen.

"Sasha Galem!" Esmeralda calls out, much to my disbelief. I tremble at first, but then my natural confidence runs throughout me. I stride up to the stage, making sure I look fabulous for the capitol. Winking at the cameras, I blow the citizens a kiss, much to the excitement of Esmeralda. Standing proud, I know I'm sly enough to come out of this alive, no matter what brute force is thrown my way.

"For the boys," Esmeralda says, making her way to the other bowl. I find the faces of my parents in the crowd, and they know I'll be fine. In theory, I've been training for this what with all the stealing. I can remain unseen in any circumstance, I don't make a sound and I'm as light as a feather and quick as lightning.

"Austin Bolton!" Esmeralda shouts. I've never heard of him, but I've sure heard of the boy who surges forward to take his place.

"I volunteer!" The maniac shouts, throwing himself into the Hunger Games for everyone to see. The cameras instantly turn to him, capturing every emotion that runs throughout his face. He looks anxious, almost like he broke a rule or something by volunteering. Sure, we don't have many volunteers, but there's a first for everything. Our only victor sits on the edge of his seat, examining this boy thoroughly.

"What is your name?" Esmeralda asks, enthralled entirely.

"Icarus Cotton!" He says proudly, expecting cheers or something. No one glorifies him though, and together we are wheeled into the Justice Building.

* * *

"You'll be fine," My father says the second he finds me in the waiting room. I nod confidently, making sure we are out of view of the peacekeeper.

"Take these," I say, and begin dumping all the things I stole into my father's hands. He and my mother try to fit them all into their already stuffed pockets, and look ridiculous with them all bugled out. Despite the fact that I just lathered my family with things, my mother gives me something in return.

"Mom no, I can't accept this," I say defiantly, pushing the ring back in her direction.

"Take it," she pleads, and I regretfully slip her wedding ring onto my fingers. The resilient ruby shines in the low-lit room, and the ring is beautiful. What makes it special is that it wasn't stolen. My dad made enough doing odd jobs to actually buy something, he wanted it to be special. They both encourage me as the peacekeeper comes, and before I know it I am whisked away towards the train, far from the family I know.

I may be able to wink at boys and flirt my way through trouble, but I know as I step onto the train that I might not be able to wiggle my way out of this one.

* * *

**Woo! The reapings are over! As I write this, I'm trying to beat the thunderstorm outside. Please review, I know we reached my reaping reviews goal with the last one, but that doesn't mean you should stop! Thanks to everyone who stuck with me thus far, we are finally on our way to the capitol! I can't wait for the tributes to start interacting, so thanks to all of you for submitting and reviewing and reading and just being plain awesome! Woo!**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


	16. A Lack of Careers

**A/N: Let the capitol chapters begin! I already have the perspectives for the capitol chapters planned, so don't feel bad if you're tribute doesn't receive as many spotlights at some others, that shows no reflection on anything. Just thought I'd let you know. I've broken the capitol down into 11 chapters, so there's still a good while before the games, but I promise these chapters aren't very long, well most of them aren't.**

**So, without further ado…The First Part of the Train Rides!**

* * *

**Avery Reid- District 1**

I twirl the golden earrings between fingers, interchanging them in and out between my manicured hands. I haven't put them on yet, but just stare at them, eyes empty and full of grief. All these years I've dreaded coming home to District One, wanting to go back to the capitol as soon as possible. It's funny, in a morbid sort of way, because now that I am on my way to the capitol, I want to turn and run, even if I have to claw my way home.

My plaid shirt is still opened, unbuttoned and revealing my defined abdominals. My cargo shorts and flip-flops complete the rugged ensemble, meant to impress every girl I meet. There's only one girl with me now, and I can tell I'm the last thing on her mind. I train my eyes on her, I'm sure the purple still gives her the creeps. She's sitting by the window, staring at the landscape that zooms by. I don't know why she even bothers; we're moving so fast that everything outside looks blurry.

That's one thing that amazes me about this ordeal so far, the train. Here we are, in complete silence and comfort, while we are moving over a hundred miles an hour. It doesn't seem to bother either Jemima or Tatyana though, who are both busy with their own thoughts.

"Well I don't think we'll get to know each other if we keep this up," I say to Jemima, who doesn't turn around. I flip my shaggy blonde hair to the right, hoping to draw Jemima's attention to my reflection in the window, but she doesn't even bat an eye. It's not that I want her; I've just never had trouble sweeping a girl off her feet before.

"Don't expect that to work on me lover boy," Jemima says casually, stunning me for a moment. No one's ever resisted my irresistible charm, and no one has ever insulted me. People adore me, and I'm sure the second we get to the capitol, someone will demand I'm exempt from this torture. Then, I'll be able to go back to my days of modeling and advertising. Submerged completely in my daydream, I don't notice Jemima move from her seat to the table, and I nearly miss the arrival of three new people into the train cart.

They're our mentors, the ones before us who have come out of this alive, and I notice one of them is merely older than I am. That's right, Summer Azalea, last year's victor. Summer strides in, her long and tan legs carrying her proudly. Her almond hair drapes behind her shoulders, and her emerald eyes pierce into my purple ones. She is striking, and she smiles faintly at me, then takes her seat at the table in the middle of the cart, my eyes don't leave her frame. Two men sit down next to and opposite of her, both of them in their twenties. District One has more victors, but only three mentors are allowed to accompany the tributes per Hunger Games, and these two men must have been sent in alongside One's newest victor.

"Sorry I couldn't be at the reaping," One of the men says, his voice husky and deep, "I had…business to attend to." He introduces himself as Galaxy Andross, victor of the 41st Hunger Games. Galaxy's hair is stark white, and his eyes match perfectly. He must've had them genetically altered, like mine. He's not too attractive, and his muscles are different than mine. Whereas my perfect figure allows me to sport my huge muscle without looking large at all, Galaxy looks like a walking bull. His neck is buried under the massive amounts of muscle he possess, and his arms bulk out wide. The other man is nearly opposite, looking more like a fox, sly and cunning.

"That'd be Cicero Giordano, he won the…," Galaxy's words are cut off as the door to the train cart slides open, and a woman emerges, tall and lithe, with chestnut hair and stunning blue eyes. A long scar runs down her left cheek, gracing the edges of her and stopping near her chin.

"Sapphire? What in hell are you doing here?" Galaxy bursts out; he's obviously the talker of the group. If my suspicions are correct, than this woman is Sapphire Mallory, another District One victor. I thought only three were allowed, but it doesn't matter, I'm not the one breaking rules here so I could care less. Besides, I've got Jemima to worry about; I still haven't found my way past her seemingly unfazed act.

"Mayor Gamble thought I should tag along," Sapphire answer coolly, "Help out Summer here with her first year of mentoring, and besides, she'll need a woman's company in the capitol, not you two chumps."

Galaxy is about to say something, but Cicero opens his mouth for the first time in this whole conversation, "Good, we'll need all the help we can get with these two."

His words sting me for some reason, and I speak up, "Hey, what is that supposed to mean?"

"Look at you," The man scoffs, "You've got your shirt open and your eyes all enhanced, why I bet you think you're hot stuff. Probably one of those capitol models, the young ones they use for to get the industry going. Your head is so full of hot air you're likely to burst at any moment. Don't think you're going to walk right in and out of the arena pretty boy, because it doesn't matter if people adore out here, once you're inside, all of that changes."

The tirade catches me off guard, and I sink into my chair. How dare he? Does he know who I am? I've got connections all throughout the capitol, everyone adores me, people won't stand up for my innocent death.

"You don't know who I am," I state coldly.

"Neither do you," Cicero retorts.

With that, he gets up and leaves the cart, headed to some other region of the train. With an exhausted sigh, Galaxy gets up and follows him out, probably trying to get him to come back into the room.

"Cicero doesn't have patience for snobby tributes," Sapphire tilts her head in the direction of the exit Cicero took when he left.

"Then I don't think we'll get along," I say, raising my eyebrows at Sapphire.

"Give it a break," she says, rising from her seat next to summer and leaving the cart as well. It's only been a few minutes and already our mentors are giving up on us. Only Summer, Jemima and I are left in the cart, and I can already see the doubt in Jemima's eyes.

"So much for upholding the sparkling glory of District One," she says with a huff. I think her words are directed at the both of us equally, as I can't see her wielding a battle axe any time soon. Jemima gets up from her seat and heads to the exit, but I call out after her.

"We are you going?" I ask.

"To my room," she says indifferently, and with that she is gone. Summer looks across the table at me, biting her lip.

"Hey," I say, giving her a wink accompanied by a swish of my hair. She may be a victor, but I can already tell Summer is falling into my trap. I adjust my position in the chair I'm sitting in so that my flannel falls back, exposing my abdominals and chest. The tiny adjustment catches Summer's eye, and she says something I wasn't quite expecting a mentor to say.

"I think I'll head back to my room, I'll leave the door unlocked," Her words are laced with seduction, and stepping out of her chair she sashays over to the doors, leaving me alone in the cart, with only one thing on my mind.

I wait a minute, then give pursuit. Coming to her door, I can tell it's her room by the small window on the outside, revealing the context of the cart. Summer is lying on her bed, and we make eye contact through the glass. Stepping inside, I remove my flannel, leaving me shirtless. My rigid shoulders and muscular arms are showing now, and I cross over to Summer's bed. She beckons me with a flick of her wrist, and climbing onto the bed, I'm about to throw on some extra charm when Summer grabs my wrist. Flipping me onto my back, she hooks a hand around my throat and pulls a knife to my chest. Completely surprised, I try to scramble away but she applies pressure to my neck, and body starts to numb. Not to where I'm out of consciousness, but to where I can't try to escape any longer.

"Lesson One," Summer says intensely, and I'm hanging on to every word, "Start thinking with your head and not with what's down there." As she says these words, she runs the knife along the edges of my groin and I get the message. Releasing me, I cough a few times, spluttering in a girl's bed. Summer stands up, motioning for me to get out. I barely make it out the door without coughing again, and I realize what Sapphire was talking about when she told me to give it a break. I may be the same Avery I was back in District One, but my charm isn't going to get me out of the arena alive.

* * *

**Ula Ermin- District Four**

It's not the train, or the fact that I'm on my way to the capitol, or even the idea that I might die in a week that gives me the creeps. No, it's not any of those things, its Richard, who just gives my bones chills as he sits and there and tears away the meat off a chicken bone at the table. He doesn't even look like he's tasting any of it, just inhaling whatever is set before him. At least I'm not the only one disturbed, because not far from the table, Dashell stares at the convict with wide eyes. Richard doesn't seem to notice though, as he continues to gorge himself on the fried food.

"God that's disgusting, couldn't you keep your mouth closed?" Dashell finally speaks up, causing Richard to look up at the escort. There's a look in Richard's eyes, something that lets Dashell know he needs to shut up. I don't even think about approaching the boy, he looks manic. I want off of this train.

My desires get me thinking about Dory, and my heart sags once again. I know I convinced myself that I would win this for her, but now, I can't help but think that Dory once sat where I do now. She rode this train to the capitol, and went through the whole process before me. It gives me shudders, to think that my sister went through this, and I wonder if she ever gave up. Sure, she always had the will to fight in her eyes, but did she always believe that? I can't think of her as weak, of course she was strong until the end. I shake the thought from my head, and at the right time to, because that's when Marlene comes in. She's accompanied by her male counterpart, Aqua. Aqua is older, but he still looks strong enough to be a mentor. He probably trained Dory alongside Marlene, the thought wrenches my heart. The whole thing about mentors irks me, because whereas the rest of the districts only get two mentors, District One is allowed to have three, and even that gets bent sometimes. I wouldn't be surprised if ten mentors walked their tributes off the train, holding their hands.

"Ula," Marlene says, drawing me from my thoughts.

"Oh, sorry," I manage to blurt out. I look up at Marlene, and she attempts to smile. I can still tell she's shocked to be looking at me in this train right now, who would've thought another Ermin child would get reaped. It always seems like the unthinkable happens in my life. I wonder who Marlene coped with Dory's reaping; she hasn't spoken much about that year ever since she came back from those games. Oh God, not now, why can't I think of this some other time.

I can picture the boy, raising his trident high over Dory's body. It was her district partner who had killed, he wanted her out of the careers from the start, even said she was too weak for them to her face. Right after the bloodbath, he hunted her down. Her screams, oh how I can still hear them in my head. Every night I hear them, Dory's blood-curling final shrieks. The image replays in mind, the boy stabs downward, oh it's too much.

"Ula!" Marlene shouts this time, and it seems like she's been trying for a while to get me out of my trance.

"I was just thinking…," I say, but she finishes my sentence.

"About Dory, I know." Her words don't shock me, though we don't talk much anymore, Marlene and I always think about her, how she didn't deserve what came to her. In all of my thinking, I forgot about Richard.

"Good, you've finally arrived," he opens his arms wide, welcoming the mentors in. "I was beginning to worry about you, I thought perhaps you might have fallen off the train. How ironic would that be?"

No one smiles at his words, although he finds them funny. While Richard dumps the remainders of his chicken wings into the trash can, I grab some food for myself. I've never had chicken, but I knew what Richard was eating because Dashell told me. Biting into the meat, I don't find it half bad.

"Tastes like fish," I say.

"Most people say it the other way around," Dashell says with a laugh.

"What?" I'm confused.

"Oh never mind, why don't you just chat with your mentors here, I'm sure they've got plenty of stuff to talk about," Dashell waves his hand in the air, turning back to his magazine. He's reading some sort of gossip, fitting for a capitolite.

"Actually, we do have a lot to talk about," Aqua says, looking at Marlene.

"Yes, it seems as if this year's career pack is…interesting," Marlene comments.

"To say the least," Aqua adds.

"What do you mean?" I ask, a bit concerned. I don't know what they mean by interesting, and I grow eager to know who my allies will be.

"Well I bet they don't come more interesting than me," Richard says, his voice waggish.

"Why don't you see for yourself," Aqua puts a small disc into the television that sits in the corner of the room. The screen is black for a moment, then jolts to life. It's footage from the reapings, cut to show only districts one, two, and four.

"That's Avery Reid," Marlene points to the attractive boy with the purple eyes.

"His eyes are purple, I'd consider that interesting," Richard remarks.

"He's a model, works, or worked, for the capitol," Aqua says. "He's strong, built, a good ally to have."

"What about her?" I ask, pointing to the younger girl standing next to Avery.

"That's Jemima, we're not so sure if she'll even be part of the career pack," Marlene answers, doubt clouding her eyes.

"Well then, that's one more for us to cut into little pieces," Richard says, licking his lips.

"God Richard, you literally make me want to vomit," I say, shooting him a look of disgust. His eyes instantly turn to me, filling with rage.

"Do not call me that," he spits.

"What? Richard? That's your name isn't it?" I ask, confusion mixed in with my voice.

"The name is Rip, and it's what I'll do to you if you call me Richard again," he hisses, his teeth forming into a snarl.

Rip. It's the perfect little name to go with his absolutely frightening demeanor. I thought he was horrifying before, but now, he's just plain revolting. There's something about him though, the look in his eyes when he puts on his little show. Call me crazy, but it looks like he's hiding something, almost as if this psycho personality is a charade.

"Since either you or I will be dead soon," I say, no longer afraid of him, just disgusted, "I think I'll call you whatever I want, Richard."

He growls, like the animal he is, and I turn my attention to the screen. Marlene gives me a wide-eyed look, to which Richard snaps his teeth at. Marlene ignores him, and looks back at the television.

"So, we're not betting on Jemima or anything, but District Two is where things heat up," Aqua comments.

"No way, they're siblings?" Richard asks, completely excited. The thought sickens me entirely. What if Caspian was reaped alongside me? I'd die of a heart attack, before I even made it onto the train. I couldn't bear the thought of going into the arena with Caspian, but what makes this scene all the more treacherous is that the girl, Cassia, volunteered after she realized her brother was going in.

"She wants to kill him," I say aloud, causing everyone, even Dashell, to look my way.

"She volunteered so she could kill him," I continue to talk. Richard looks at me, expression blank and eyes understanding. It looks like this situation has drawn some humanistic quality out of him.

"That's what we believe as well," Marlene replies, "So I don't know if they'll both be in the alliance."

"So that would only be four, instead of six," Richard observes, assessing the problem.

"So where do we get more tributes?" I ask, concerned about the situation. Marlene and Aqua exchange a look, and then look back at me and Richard.

"That's where you two come in. You'll be the only pair in the alliance, so we thought one of you should assume the role of leader and then try to recruit more tributes for the career alliance. Look for more balanced ones though, we've got plenty of strength in the four of you already, be it either Nero or Cassia who sticks with the group."

Richard and I understand what we must do, and it's us who exchange looks this time. I look at him, and a smile creeps onto my face. "If you want to be leader," I say, a gleam in my eyes, "Be my guest…Richard."

He looks at me, and there's something about the look in his eyes that isn't so malicious anymore. I think he understands that with our numbers down, the career alliance might not make it past the bloodbath if the two of us don't cooperate. I push my thoughts of Dory and my family aside, and look hard into his eyes.

"Two things," He says, "One, I'm the leader, and Two, only you get to call me Richard."

One word escapes my lips in reply, "Deal."

* * *

**That was longer than expected. Avery's learned that he can't charm his way to the top, or can he? Will Ula and Rip's deal be received well by the other careers? Thanks for all the reads and reviews, and keep on doing it. Reviews make my day, so be sure to leave one if you are enjoying this story. Onward to the next set of Train Rides!**

** -AdmiralBobbery**


	17. The Tributes Arrive

**A/N: Well, the support is just flowing in! Thanks to all of you who continuously review, it means the world to me. I'm growing obsessed with this story, if you can't tell by my frequent updates. It's summer though, and with all this time on my hands…why not write! Right? Ha-ha, weak pun. Anyway, we are ten chapters from the games and I'm super excited! So, here we go… the second and final segment of…The Train Rides!**

* * *

**Cassia Lepidus- District 2**

This couldn't be any more exciting than it's turned out to be, and I can tell Nero is just thrilled by the way he looks at me from across the room. Well, I don't know if you could call it a room, more or less a train cart, but whatever, it doesn't matter. What does matter is how I act towards sweet Nero for the next week, until I can rip him from limb to limb inside that arena.

Most people would think I'm some homicidal freak for volunteering after Nero threw himself at the stage, but that's certainly not the case. No, I'm not a deranged lunatic who just brandishes knives against anyone she meets, there's a deeper level to all of this. The entire point of being born in District Two is so that you can train until you're eighteen. That's what people do, they train and they train because District Two has a standard to live up to, and everyone respects that. Everyone except my brother. He feels as if the Hunger Games are a bit too dark for his tastes, so he trains with minimal effort and scowls upon the capitol. It infuriates me. To no end.

Nero disgusts me, and standing firm on up there was the ultimate act of mockery. He thought he could simply waltz on stage and deny others a chance at some game he didn't even bother to take seriously in training! And for what? To come back home and hold it over my head? Oh, it just drives me insane! Which many people think I'm starting to become. Another thing I can blame Nero for, the fact that I'm slowly going crazy, because I can't stop thinking about how undeserving and revolting he is. So, I took the only logical option to reinstate the fierce drive and determination of District Two. What would people think if they saw him representing us? All smug and confident, without any real discipline and backbone behind him. I bet the second he hits that arena, he'll tuck his tail in between his legs and bolt for the trees, or dunes, or caves, or whatever they have in store for us. If he had a tail that is. I could make him a tail, fashion it out his skin and wrap it around a toilet paper roll. No! I need to focus, not think about dumb stuff like that. See, there's Nero, making me go crazy. Oh I could just flay him now!

I don't care about the fact that he's my brother, because he's really not. Sure, he's older than me and more experienced and blah blah blah, but that doesn't matter once we're in the arena. If he even thinks about joining the careers, I'll kill him before he even gets a glimpse at the arena, in fact, I'll kill him before he gets a glimpse of the capitol. Oh great, the mentors are here, I could care less. I don't need someone giving me tips on how to kill the other twenty-two tributes, because that's all mentors are good from. Their sole purpose is to make you forget about the fact that someone from your district must die for you to go home, and that's why it's so much easier knowing it will be Nero. I wouldn't want precious District Two blood to spill if it had trained and tried its whole life to be worthy of belonging to District Two. But Nero, not Nero, he couldn't care less. Killing him will be so easy.

That idiot Viola is looking at me. I give her a menacing glare, and she looks back down to her nails, preening and primping them to perfection. That's all she has to worry about, her nails? God, people disgust me. People like Nero. His whole act was just perfect. The firm "No" when the boys rushed forward to take his place, the stunned look on his face when I sacrificed myself for that small girl, what was her name? Aurora? Whatever, it doesn't matter, because the mentors are trying to talk to us, and I can't wait to hear what Nero has to say.

"So it's our understanding you two are siblings," a man with jet black hair says, phrasing his statement like a question. Whether it's either of those two, his words annoy me. Of course we're siblings, it's not something you have to understand.

"Of course we are," I state, "Nero here is my big brother." I shoot him a loving glance, and my brother can't peel his eyes away from me. No emotion registers on his face, just a blank expression.

"Well, might we ask, why did you volunteer after he was reaped?' A woman with fiery red hair asks me, the other mentor.

"Is the answer not obvious?" I ask, dumbfounded by this woman's stupidity. After no one says anything I let out an exasperated sigh, and turn to face the window. I can still feel Nero's eyes on me, those golden eyes. It makes me want to scream! Oh how I could rip out those shining golden eyes.

"Stop staring at me!" I scream, instantly earning myself the attention of everyone in the room, cart, whatever. Nero stops.

"But you're my little sister, and you're going into the Hunger Games. Why, if I stopped looking at you, how would I know if you're safe or not?" Nero coos, much to my annoyance. So that's how he wants to play, he's going to act like he pities my insanity. Well I'm not insane. At least I think I'm not. No, I know I'm not. God, shut up Cassia. What am I talking to myself now? Oh he makes me mad!

The man and woman who call themselves our mentors exchange worried glances, I bet they've never had anything like this before.

"I'm Hanson," The black-haired man says, looking back and forth between Nero and I.

"And I'm Klaudia," The red-haired woman adds, her bright green eyes training on me.

"Why are you staring at me?" I spit the words out of my mouth, startling her.

"You both are going to need to refocus those attitudes if you want to win. I don't care if you are siblings or not, only one of you is coming out now, and if you continue to act like this, your rage will blind you and then neither of you will walk out of the arena," Hanson barks.

"He's right," Klaudia adds.

"What are you, his support group?" I already know I hate her.

"Give it a rest little sister, can't you see these grown-ups are trying to reason with you. Oh that's right, you wouldn't know how a grown-up thinks, because you'll never be one," Nero says, his words icy and cocky.

"Don't think I'm not as smart as you," I say, my voice climbing, "I've got plans for you!"

"Oh little sister, what's the matter? You don't like your big brother?" Nero is starting to push me over the edge as he says these words. Wait, hold on for a minute. That's exactly what he is trying to do, push me over the edge. Then I'll look crazy and he'll get all the help from the mentors. No, no I will not let that happen.

"I don't know what you mean," I say, putting a hand to my heart and calming my voice, "I love my big brother, with all of my heart." My words surprise him, and I can tell he is retreating, for now. Hanson and Klaudia look back and forth between us once more, but it's Viola who speaks up.

"Well, I think I'll have something to drink," she says, crossing over to the bar. Pouring herself what looks like vodka and something else, she takes a seat again and gulps down a large portion of the drink. Hanson and Klaudia take their seats at the table and motion for us to come over.

"Now that you two have stopped your little act, we can address the family issues later," Hanson says, "But for now, we need to focus on building the career group, because we seriously doubt the District One girl will be of much use." The gears in my head are already turning for how to get Nero out of the career alliance without Hanson and Klaudia knowing, but then my wonder of a brother comes out of left field again and shocks us all.

"I won't be joining the careers, that's where Cassia belongs," he says defiantly, stunning everyone in the room, cart, if you will.

Hanson opens his mouth but Nero continues, "If you think I'm some killing machine who targets innocent kids, then you've got me wrong. I won't say I'm a great guy, but I won't murder for my own sustenance. I'm sure the other careers, people like Cassia, can't wait to spill the blood of children all over that arena, be you can count me out. That's not who I am, nor who I'll ever be."

Viola looks faint, and Hanson has to put his fist in his mouth to prevent himself from exploding. Klaudia and I on the other hand don't seem to upset or uninterested, just mildly suspicious of his motives.

"So what do you plan on doing?" Klaudia asks, her eyes narrowed at Nero.

"I plan on killing when I have to, I've trained, enough to where I know I can beat nearly anyone who comes my way. I won't have a problem killing if I'm confronted, but I won't be seeking out others to kill for the fun of it," Nero remarks, and Klaudia simply nods her head.

"Then you're like me," she says, "You're not a career."

"And I thought we had something here, with all this hate built up we could have unleashed a maelstrom on the other districts," Hanson gripes, his head in his heads. Klaudia shrugs, obviously unfazed by Nero's decision. I'm oddly quiet, simply taking all this in. If Nero won't be part of the careers, then I could easily lead them. They'll fear me, I'll command them with certainty, and together, I and the careers, we will bring down Nero, and everyone else in that arena.

* * *

**Caramen Fliess- District Five**

Romulus, Romulus, Romulus, that's all I can think about as the capitol comes into view. I've never been to the capitol before, but I know my uncle lives here and I know he's my ticket back home. If I can just ask for something, something that will help me win, I know I can get it through Romulus. The brilliant waterfall crashes over the side of the cliff that marks the beginning of the capitol, and I can start to see the buildings lining up on the horizon. With the speed the train is going at, the horizon soon becomes the present, and people are everywhere.

"Wow, I didn't think people would ever elect to put on this kind of clothing," Amerilia states as she rises from her seat. We were uncomfortably quite throughout the train ride, and now that we are here I feel as if Amerilia no longer needs me. Not like she ever needed me in the first place, but I guess she felt entitled to keep me company while we are on the train. Now that we're here though, who knows what she'll do.

They wave at us, the bright citizens of the capitol. Each of them shouts and chants in anticipation of the games, anxious for what histrionics we have to show. The thought of the games brings me back to my mother, and I desperately want to be back in District Five. I never thought I could be reaped, not once did I ever think it would happen to me. Looks like I was wrong.

"Come on Caramen, get up," Luxxe says, our female mentor. Luxxe Dare has raven black hair and matching eyes. Her skin is pale and tight, her features gaunt and stricken. We watched footage from her games on the way up here, and she was positively brilliant, in a sickening sort of way. She played the careers, each and every one of them. Gaining their trust, she killed them all and made off with her real alliance mates, which she proceeded to kill as well. Building trust and destroying, that's what Luxxe showcased during her games, and it makes me want to refrain from speaking with her. Why should I accept advice from someone like her? Especially after she showed us all the carnage she created.

"Get up," Luxxe says, hissing like a snake. I obey, and make my way to the window. Everyone outside is so enthusiastic, you'd think we were some parade. I guess we are, we will be especially after tonight's chariot rides. I wonder what kind of ridiculous costume our stylists have in mind for us.

I can't help but wave back at the throng of people celebrating outside. I guess the Hunger Games is some sort of festivity here, in the safe haven the capitol is. Their children don't get reaped, a reward for staying loyal. Why couldn't I have been born here? Why do I have to suffer this cruel fate? I never did anything wrong, so why am I being punished like this?

"They love us," Amerilia says, twirling her hair for the people outside. It makes them go insane, and I can already tell she'll be a hit with the capitol citizens. She is beautiful, athletic, not your typical District Five girl. It's originality that gets people going in these games, and I know there is nothing original about me. I possess no skills, I can't do anything accept cry for my mother. I don't know what kind of score that gets you, but I'll assume it's low.

The train lurches to a halt, which signals it's time to disembark. Romulus, Romulus, Romulus, it's all I can think about. Just get through this week and then Romulus will help me out once I get into the arena; he is a gamemaker after all. I can't hear myself think as the door opens and the massive sound of thousands of people cheering blasts my ears.

"Wonderful isn't it?" Luxxe says, a wicked smile on her face.

It's anything but.

**We're here, it's the capitol! I'm so excited to begin the chariot rides! I bet you can't tell from all these frequent posts, but I am getting pumped about this story! Thanks to everyone who reviews! It means the whole wide world! Even favorites, follows, reads, they all matter to me, so be sure to do any of those things to make my day.**

**On another note, since we are at the capitol...The Sponsor Shop is open! Let me take a moment to explain and then show you what can get you points. The Sponsor Shop is the only way tributes can receive gifts in the arena, and they get them from you! To buy a gift, simply go to the sponsor shop forum (link will be up on my profile soon) and leave a post saying you'll be purchasing this certain item. You can't start buying things until the games begin, but you can start earning points between now and the start of the games. I'll be keeping track of everyone's individual points, so if you buy something you don't have enough points for, then you can't buy that item. Also, after every purchase, I'll PM you a receipt, letting you know how many points you had, what you bought for how much, and how many points you have left. The items won't be posted for a few more chapters, so you can start looking at what you want, but for now, just work on earning points. So here's what you get.**

**Submitting a Tribute- Worth 500 points. Isn't this wonderful? If you've submitted a tribute to my story, you start off with 500 points! Yay for participation!  
**

**Posting in the Bloodbath Forum (Link on my profile)- 100 points.**

**Leaving a Review- 500 points.**

**Favoriting this Story- 800 points.**

**Following this Story- 1,000 points.**

**Favoriting me as an author- 1,250 points.**

**Following me as an author- 1,500 points.**

**So, get busy earning points, that way you'll be able to give the tribute you love an upper hand when the games begin, or save your points and accrue them over time to help out a tribute when they're in dire need. The games are dependent upon the sponsors, like Caramen believes, so try hard and shop until you drop!**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


	18. The Trumpet Sounds

**A/N: One thing quickly, do not worry about tallying up your points for the sponsor shop. I've got all of that covered and I'll PM telling you your first balance when the actual items go on sale. Don't be afraid to spend right away or save for something big. It could take a while to buy something you may want, but that single item may change the face of the game. Thanks for all the support and reviews; we are quickly climbing towards 100! So here we are already…The Chariot Rides!**

* * *

**Jemima Fitch- District One**

I didn't really give Avery the time of day on the train, and it seems to me as if his hunky male model act is running a bit dry. I don't say a single word to him as we're carted off the train and hauled in separate directions by our mentors. Summer and Sapphire accompany me to the stylist's department, while Galaxy and Cicero take off with Avery. I find it odd, to have four mentors this year, whereas most of the time District One has three at best. Sapphire's entrance into the train cart seemed a little mysterious, and like Galaxy, I wasn't too convinced of her story.

"Alright, we need you looking fabulous for the chariot rides tonight," Sapphire says all dramatic and such, looking me up and down with her cerulean eyes. They match her name perfectly, and shine in the afternoon light. I had completely forgotten about the chariot rides tonight, and the last thing I want to do is stand next to Avery Reid in some ridiculous chariot. Those poor horses will be pulling us along, straining their muscles while they are tied to heavy carts, goodness it's awful. I can't stand abuse to anyone, be it the biggest man or smallest fly, it's just wrong to hurt other living things.

"Once you meet your stylists, they'll strip you down and rinse you off, make sure all that grime is off before they begin preening you to perfection," Sapphire instructs, far ahead of Summer and I. Summer is quiet mostly, but whenever she speaks, her words carry weight. She is beautiful, I'll give her that, I just don't know how I'll stand in her place if I stick to my beliefs. Which I will be sticking to. I wonder if they've ever had someone flat refuse to take part in their little game before, I'm sure they have. If not, then I'll gladly be the first.

Coming towards the building, I must admit I'm a bit intimidated. The structure is monolithic in size and the copper dome at the top shines resplendently in the afternoon sun. The sunbeams bounce off and reflect against Summer's platinum blonde hair, making her hard to look at. Squinting my eyes to avoid damage from the rays, I look ahead and take in the Games Complex. Only a small portion of it is dedicated to the stylists, and I can't help but wonder at what lay within this labyrinth of a building. Summer is thinking along the same lines, because she says,

"You'll be amazed at what's inside, the entire thing is where you sleep, eat, train, get fitted, they even host the interviews there. The second you enter, you won't leave until the games begin," her words have a certain darkness to them that makes me feel uneasy. This is the last place I'll get to visit before I die.

I mean it's only practical to accept my death at this point. I refuse to hurt anyone, I don't care if the capitol tortures me to pieces, I won't bend my morals. I don't know who in their right mind would want to protect, but I can only envision that as my only route to victory, if someone helps me out. When training begins, I'll need to work on finding an ally.

"Here we are," Sapphire beams, "The stylist's department." Upon entering the building, the sound of the doors shutting behind gave me chills. Just like that, my freedom is gone. Looking at the rows of metal benches, each one possessing only a white sheet on it, it appears as if I'm looking at a morgue instead of a somewhat salon. We're not the first ones here, as stylists are already busy on two other girls.

My rivals.

I mustn't think like that, but it is true. These girls, who I wish no malice upon, are going to try and kill me in a matter of a week so they can go back to their former lives. It's bone-chilling, and I try to wipe that thought away as Summer and Sapphire turn me over to my trio of stylists.

"Ah, Sapphire, good to see you again," one of them, a man, says, "How are you?"

"Just fine Maurice, I'd like you to meet Jemima, she's our female tribute for this year," Sapphire does the formalities for me, and Maurice slightly tilts his head to me.

"Last time Sapphire introduced me to a tribute, she came home a victor. Let's hope you do the same," Maurice says, looking up towards Summer.

"Oh Maurice, you haven't even said hello to Summer yet," another stylists says. She has chopped ultra-pink and periwinkle skin. Shimmering silver tattoos run up her arms and neck, and her eyes are purple, like Avery's.

"My name is Alloy, nice to meet you…," she grabs at nothing for my name.

"I'm Jemima," I say, quick enough to where Sapphire doesn't have to say it for me.

"Summer, how is the life of a victor?" Alloy questions, lathering her voice with the want for information. These capitol people seem rather greedy and gossipy to me.

"Pleasant enough," Summer states, shrugging off Alloy's need to know.

"Hmm, well we have lots of work to do ladies, so we'll see you at the chariot rides tonight won't we?" A new voice pipes up from behind a shower curtain, and a bespectacled woman with long black hair steps out from behind. Unlike the others, she is free of tattoos and skin dyes, but she does have several piercings. Her ears are pierced twice, and her cartilage as well. She has a nose piercing, and a Monroe. Looking down at me, she seems a bit intimidating.

"Oh, Miss Luna, I didn't know you worked on your tributes before the fitting," Sapphire states, a bit of intrigue in her voice.

"I like to know what I'll be getting when I work with them, so I fired Allica and instated myself, thought it'd be best for the tributes," Miss Luna replies.

"We'll see you later, at the chariot rides," Sapphire comments, taking Summer with her as she leaves.

"I thought that was at night, isn't it only afternoon?" I question Miss Luna.

"Oh honey, there is much to be done," she says, and I don't know what to make of that statement in regards to my personal upkeep. They quickly begin, in the exact process that was described to me. I am rinsed, plucked, dried, brushed, rinsed, plucked some more, get my hair cut, curled, straightened; every option is viewed before they settle on one. Picking straight, they then add streaks of gold to my black hair. None of this is prompted to me, only done without my counsel. I guess they know what is best. Make up is applied, taken off, applied again, redone, it's a nightmare. Blemishes are removed, bruises are covered, imperfections like birthmarks and moles are taken away by lasers. It's all a process, and by the end I look ravishing.

"I'd have to say that's our best job yet," Alloy comments, staring at me from a few feet away. They look me up and down, all the while chatting about the newest sensations and trends. The latest parties they've been to, the company they've entertained and the diets they're trying. They touch on gossip, and I pick up something peculiar.

"Did you just say that the Head Gamemaker has been assassinated?" I ask, completely unaware of the news.

"Yes, it was tragic darling, but don't worry, they've got a new one. Dolora Prewitt is her name, and she's supposed to be fantastic at what she does," Maurice answers, not thinking once about what that means for me. Great, if Dolora is so fantastic, then I might as well give up. Who knows what sickening arena she's planned for us, and what muttations hide within? Suddenly, my stylists stop chatting, and I know the process is over.

"Great work team, I'll be taking her to the fitting now so you're free to go," Miss Luna states, waving Maurice and Alloy away. We watch them go, and then Miss Luna states in her prurient voice, "They're so dull aren't they, why don't you and I have some more intelligent conversation in my office?"

I am shocked by her treatment of her coworkers, I thought she liked them. She leads me into her office, and I am wearing nothing but towels. I look beautiful though, a thousand times more than I ever have. I wish my parents could see me, maybe they'd actually love me if they saw me now. All done up and about to go into the Hunger Games, I wonder what they're thinking. Do they still hate me for not being violent? Do they still wish I could train like the other girls in District One and bring glory to our family? I wish I knew the answers to those questions, but I don't have time to sort them out before Miss Luna starts talking again.

"So, Chalice Arstiepe is Avery's personal stylist, as I am yours. Now, Chalice and I conversed themes before you arrived this afternoon, we were sent pictures of your appearances. Avery, that boy is a god in form and face, just delightful to look at. With his body, well, we hashed out gladiator themes, warrior themes, all sorts of poses, so we could showcase that lovely body of his. Now, looking at you, you can blossom from a withered weed to the most luxuriant rose, so nothing is out of the question. Chalice and I, we're thinking…," she pauses for effect, "Something scandalous."

I don't have a problem with being scandalous, as long as no one is hurt, my morals are held high, and everyone has a nice time. Then Miss Luna rolls out the dress I'll be wearing, and it's got to be the sluttiest thing since fishnets, and God do I love it. It's so weird, but I've got a limited amount of time to live, Hunter would go insane if he saw me in this, so why not flaunt what I can before I go out. Thinking about, I feel more confident like this, I wish I could be beautiful all the time.

"What do you think?" Miss Luna asks, holding up the shimmering scarlet gown.

"I…I love it," I say, a bit stunned by its magnificence.

"Perfect," is all she can say.

* * *

**Leo Ventras- District Three**

I look ridiculous, that's all there is to it. I'm sure Maud looks equally dumb, because my stylist is something of a half-wit. I've been sprayed a metallic luster, which was fine, I thought they might make me into some silvery robot thing, without actually assembling robot parts around me. If it didn't hurt bad enough with all the bruises my mother gave me, the casing around me is way too tight, and I can barely breathe. The constriction flairs my ribs, which are nothing short of cracked, which I can thank my mother for.

I'm still in a fiery rage after what she said to me only this morning. She acted like she cared for me, like father's death meant something to her, as if her incessant beatings of me weren't the results of drink and sleepless nights. Then she even had the gall to ask me to be her little rebel and fulfill the dreams of my father. She couldn't care less, and I know if I win this thing, she'll flush all of the money towards more booze and gamble the rest off.

That's why I've decided that if I win, I'll probably have killed to get there, and if I've killed, I'm going to kill my mother. She deserves it, after everything she's done to me, I won't let her slide. She can think of it as repayment for all the broken bones and tears she's dealt me.

"Now that doesn't look so bad," Crescendo, my stylist, remarks as he looks at me in full circle. Strutting around me like some deranged bird, Crescendo bobs his head up and down, checking for imperfections. This whole thing is an imperfection, I shouldn't be dressed like this, it makes District Three look moronic. Loathing my outfit and ready to strangle Crescendo, I don't get my chance as I escorted out of the room and into someplace new. It's sort of like an atrium, with a wide expanse of room and people bustling around. I realize that these people are tributes.

We are all here, each and every one of us dressed up by our stylists to match our district partner accordingly. I can see District One; the boy isn't even wearing a shirt. Glittery red pants adorn his legs and that is it, but the girl next to him looks spectacular. I think the other district closest to us is seven perhaps, as the male tribute is wearing laurels of some sylvan variety. I don't get to look at the others for too long though, because Crescendo takes me to meet with Maud and her stylist.

"I think they could have thought of something better," I whisper to Maud as Crescendo dashes off to find some sort of correction make-up for the costume. She giggles faintly and says,

"Well we do look a bit ridiculous."

Yeah, a bit.

Crescendo comes back though, and soon the chariots arrive. One by one, the pairs of tributes board their horse-drawn chariots, each animal possessing a differently colored pompadour running down their blinders. It takes a moment for me to realize that we are next, because the pair from Two has already climbed onto their chariot. Seizing the handlebar, I hoist myself up. Maud's stylist helps her for a moment, but she manages to step on with minimal assistance. The two chariots in front of us look regal. District One with their shimmery raiment and District Two possessing tough looking displays. Maud and I on the other hand look like idiots in our robotic display.

I look behind us, noticing the pair from four. They look dazzling; the girl has on some pretty blue dress. When she moves, the fabric appears to be flowing like the waters of District Four. Just brilliant, why couldn't Crescendo think of something like that? Why did I get the stupidest stylist in the capitol?

They must have the pair from twelve in their chariot, because before I can turn my head around to situate myself, the chariot strides forward and the show has begun.

* * *

**Amber Liefson- District Eleven**

Auric and I look alright, not like some of the tributes. Our stylists played it safe, and just dressed us up in bland and grainy colors like the scenery of District Eleven. Sure it could have been a bit more creative, and Melodia would have rocked this dress, but they worked with what they had.

However, being in the next to last district, Auric and I get to see the others before they lunge out into the view of the capitol's citizens, and some of them look horrendous. The first two were nice, the pairs from One and Two. But that's to expect, I mean they're from Districts One and Two. Then, when it was District Three's turn to go out, they looked plain stupid. I mean come on, robots? Four wasn't so bad, the girl's dress was pretty but the boy just wore fishing stuff. I stopped watching after District Six, which was meant to represent transportation. There were a lot of directions to take that, and what the stylists did was not one of them.

However, as we are about to go, I get nervous. This is the first time the capitol will really see me. This is my chance to gain sponsors and get people to like me. Everyone is going to smile and wave, but Auric and I have to do something to get their attention. I mean, I really don't care about what happens to Auric, but I need people to want to help me. I have to get home.

That's why I decide to put on a strong image, make it look like District Eleven has confidence for once. As our chariot bursts forward, I keep my hand on the railing and look directly ahead, instructing Auric to do the same. He listens of course; he is a twelve year old after all. Not wavering in our steady gaze forward, the capitol citizens seem to like it, because we receive a mix of cheers louder than the districts before us, save the career districts of course. Just as I feel like we've got something to be happy about, District Twelve one-ups us, or the girl does at least.

I don't know her name yet, but I am determined to find out. The girl from Twelve is winking and blowing kisses to the crowd, twirling her hair and extending her arms. It's quite a show, and she's doing it all while standing next to some vapid looking boy. He just stands there and looks out at the crowd, completely missing the fireworks going off next to him. The crowd roars for her, eating up her little display. She winks a few more times and blows some extra kisses and then settles down as the chariots come to a stop around the president's podium.

I can see him, President Snow, high up on his pedestal. Several official and important looking people surround him, undoubtedly gamemakers and respected advisors or friends, business partners and supporters. The President stretches his arms and then makes a brisk walk forward to the microphone, clearing his throat before he delivers his message.

"Welcome tributes, we thank you for participating in this year's Hunger Games," he begins, making it sound like we all decided to come here. The crowd is silent now, everyone hanging onto his every word. "I'm sure you're eager to begin your preparation for the arena, but take a moment to congratulate yourself for bringing honor to your district by participating. Even though some of you will fall, your sacrifice reminds others of what they have to live for, and for that we thank you."

His words send goose bumps down my arms, but the crowd goes berserk. Clapping and hollering, everyone is simply enamored with his welcoming speech. It wasn't that great to me, and sounded loaded with lies, but I guess that's how things work in the capitol. Just be excited about everything and you can easily blend in. Before I know it, the chariots make a final turn back down the way we came and the crowd gets even louder, something I thought impossible until I heard it. They all reach out and cheer; trying to give us doses of the same jubilation they feel. I wish I could tell them it isn't working.

As we reach the atrium where we boarded the chariots, the upper districts are already disembarking from their rides. The horses are led away and tributes start to depart with their stylists, escorts and mentors in tow. Each pair has a mini entourage that follows them around, composed of all those people. It seems silly, but each one has a vital role to play. The stylists have to make sure you look good, because if you don't, then getting sponsors may be a grim prospect. Escorts manage everything and mentors have to prepare you. I didn't think there was this much work in walking to your death, but I was wrong.

It isn't long before Auric and I are lead to our room, the floor right below the penthouse. District Twelve gets to stay there, but our room is extremely nice as well. Servants stand in the corners of the room, people my stylist calls avoxes. They all wait quietly with their heads down, not looking up. I soon learn they've had their tongues cut out, and I decide I won't ask anything of them. It'd be too much for me to put more stress onto someone in that condition, it wouldn't be right. I am dead tired, and I'm glad when I'm dismissed for the evening, but I do take note training begins tomorrow. Joy, something else to look forward. I'm beginning to realize, the Hunger Games have little to do with you, but instead the image you produce. It's all about glory and honor and advertising as well. No one truly cares if your body is shipped home in a casket. Sure, the people feel sad for a moment, but then something new steals their attention, and like the summer breeze that runs through the orchards of District Eleven, you are quickly forgotten.

* * *

**There we have it, the chariots have been ridden! Let me know what you think, did you like it or not? I know I didn't depict much of the chariot riding sequence, but I wanted to reflect more on how the tributes were taking in the new environment, and their thoughts on the capitol. So, training begins next, we'll see what our tributes get up to when they begin to interact for the first time!**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


	19. Time to Shine

**A/N: Here we go, the first day of training! Expect the chapters to get a little longer from here on out, as each chapter will encompass a full portion of the capitol. For instance, this chapter is entirely devoted to the first day of training; I'm not breaking up days. This will make the chapters longer, but that means we will approach the games at a faster rate! Also, don't be discouraged if your tribute doesn't show up in training, I've allotted perspectives for all the tributes throughout their stay at the capitol. Don't forget to be working towards those points in the sponsor shop! **

* * *

**Amerilia Hesterfield- District Five**

The moment I wake up, my surroundings are unfamiliar. Questions enter my head, such as where am I? How did I get here? What's going on? Looking out my bedroom window, I can see the bustling life below, and I know I'm not in District Five. The buildings are everywhere, there are no houses or dirt roads or anything resembling my home. I scan the people, none of them are familiar faces, each one is dyed a weird shade or wearing some extravagant garb. I can't pick out one face I know, and panic sets in. Then I remember, it's as if a deluge of information floods my brain. I left District five yesterday, and now I am here, in the capitol, because I was reaped.

Pain sears my heart, it's emotional not physical. The people I left behind imprint themselves upon my mind, Redrik, Hannah, even my money-grubbing father. I wonder what he's up to right now, probably watching stocks or something. He never seemed to care entirely, but neither did I. Our relationship was built on money, something that shouldn't have escalated so far. I don't know why I feel this remorse now, but I need to focus, today is the first day of training and I've got to show the others that I'm worth something. They are going to look out for me.

* * *

Coming downstairs from my lavish new bedroom, I spot Caramen at the breakfast table with Luxxe, but I don't know where Rochelle and Colfax are. Luxxe and Colfax are our mentors, while our ditzy new escort, Rochelle, is probably bumbling around somewhere. My thoughts drift to Redrik again, about how awkward he was before the reaping. Why did he want me all of a sudden? Why did he pick my birthday of all days to do that? Oh super, in the whirlwind that was yesterday I didn't even think about the fact that it was my birthday. Now I'm sixteen, and I feel no different, slightly more depressed, but that's due to the untimely reaping.

"Going to come down those stairs?" Luxxe asks, and I realize I stopped about midway in my thoughts about home.

"Oh sorry," I say, all cutesy and such. I'm still playing the distressed damsel card I threw out at the reaping yesterday. I know my ticket out of here is acting, and I know my initial plan was to showcase my skills, but now something new forms in my head. If I can keep playing this act, make the others think I'm some brainless broad, then I'll have no trouble knocking them all flat. I just need to secure an ally, someone who I can fall back on and tell my plan to, that way I won't be taking down the careers on my own. Looking at the breakfast table though, I know my ally is not the scrawny twelve-year old that sits in front of me. Sure, Caramen is sweet, but that won't win him anything.

"How'd you sleep?" Luxxe prompts conversation once more, and I reply, "Oh the beds here are very nice, it was just hard to sleep, because I'm so scared." Luxxe looks at me with a deadpan expression, is my act that transparent? No, I've got to keep this up.

"It's only natural," Luxxe says after a while, and I'm a bit confused.

"What's natural?" I ask, talking right past Caramen.

"To be scared," Luxxe responds.

That's basically it for conversation between the three of us. We munch on fruits and granola; I make a bowl of oatmeal for myself. I'm eating light; I don't want to go into training all bloated. After a while, Colfax walks in, and I can smell alcohol on him, this should be fun.

"Morning ladies," Colfax says to the three of us, and hurt rises in Caramen's eyes.

Luxxe gives him a look, but he openly replies, "I'm just stating the truth." Caramen gets up and leaves the room in a flurry, obviously annoyed by Colfax's remarks. I guess he's headed to the training center, all though I don't know where that is yet. I don't give it too much thought, because I don't intend on building any relationship with Caramen, he's too weak.

"That little butterball won't get too far, but this one here," Colfax points at me with his knife, covered in gooey purple jelly from spreading it on an English muffin. "This one might get far."

"But I don't know," I say, worried about this new belief in me. Why would Colfax assume that from the beginning? I guess since they're my mentors I can tell them, but if Caramen finds out, I'm screwed.

"Oh you do know darling, look at you. You're probably more prepared than the girl from One. I can see athleticism in you, so don't play coy with me. Go on a spit it now," Colfax says, and I know I can't hide my plan from my mentors.

"Fine," I huff, looking at Luxxe and Colfax squarely. "I have a plan, to pretend like I'm some stupid little boy chaser until we get in that arena. Then, I'll unleash on the careers with help from the allies I make in today's training session."

"Bad plan," Luxxe immediately says, and Colfax nods his head.

"What? Why? If I showcase my skills then the careers will come for me," I say desperately.

"If you don't train this week though, you may be unprepared when you enter the arena. Work your muscles, and learn to swim if you don't know how. Gamemakers love to throw in water, it's one of their favorite tricks. Work yourself, but not too hard. Run through the gauntlet a few times, shoot some arrows, play with a sword. Act like you're interested in training but don't show everything. If you just sit down and play dumb, then you'll be an immediate target, easy prey," Colfax advises, and I guess the alcohol doesn't fog his thought process too severely. It's as if Luxxe picks up on this thought, because she says,

"Think how smart you could be if you lay off the scotch."

"You're not my mother," Colfax says with a grin, and Luxxe can't help but smile. They've worked together for a while, it's obvious, and with this information that they've given me, I guess I'll still work on building allies, but showcase my skills a bit as well.

"Thanks," I mutter, regretful to acknowledge someone's help.

"Free of charge," Colfax says, taking a swig from his flask.

"I better get going," I say quickly, noticing the time.

"You better," He says, and then I'm gone.

* * *

"In six days you will be in the arena, from which point you will try to kill one another. Don't be afraid to accept that thought, and go in here today knowing you have to work to win. Push yourself and you may find the key to getting back home. Only one of you can win, so make every blow, shot, and lift count, understand?" The head instructor, Platinum, tells us. Platinum is tall, intimidating, and devilishly handsome. A small black goatee runs down his chin, and his grey eyes scan every one of us. I can tell he is picking out the strong, determining who will make it all the way.

"If there are no questions, you may begin," Platinum says, raising his eyebrows. No one says a word, and he steps aside to let us have free reign of the training complex. Stations are everywhere, ranging from physical tests to mental procedures. Already, the career pack is forming, and from a side glance by the poisonous plants station, I begin to dissect them.

District One is obviously the boy without a shirt, I haven't seen him in one thus far, which isn't a problem. He's got purple eyes, which give me chills, but in a good way. He looks strong, fast, trained. His platinum blonde hair hangs just above his eyes, and he's probably one of the most attractive people I've seen. Pity he has to die.

I can't seem to spot his district partner, I don't know where she went. Obviously, she's not part of the career pack, which is a new thought to me. If they're short in numbers, they might be recruiting. That's more tributes I'd have to keep track of, and I know my hypothesis is correct when the career pack begins deep conversation instead of immediate training. Looks like the boy from District Two isn't around either, which is another quirk of this pack. I definitely remember seeing him at the chariot rides, tall and strong looking. Attractive too. I don't know why he would reject the careers, but I guess he felt too good for them or something.

Both from four are present, which leaves the pack with only four members. They'll try to find two more, and my mind wonders who those could be. I forget I'm standing by a station, because an instructor draws me from my thoughts.

"Care to try naming these?" She asks, voice all tender.

"Thanks," I mutter, "But no thanks." I briskly walk away from the station and head towards the archery station. I know I should work muscles before I begin swordplay, so I decide to try out a few shots at the targets. A girl is here with me, hair long and bright red. Her eyes are an electric green and she shoots with deadly accuracy.

"Hey," I begin, and before I know it I'm back at my deceptive ways. "Mind if you show me a few pointers, I haven't really done this before."

The girl looks down at me, eyeing me with concern. She can't tell if I'm being serious, I guess my posture gives it away, but she replies nonetheless, "Sure, what's your name?"

"Oh I'm Amerilia, and you are?" I ask.

"Daedrya," She says, "I've trained a lot with bows, so I can give you a few tips."

"You're from an outlying district aren't you? How come you've trained?" I question, wanting to soak up as much information as I can from other tributes.

"My sister ran the small training complex we have, until she was reaped, then I took over," Daedrya says, explaining her situation.

"I'm sorry to hear that, about your sister," I say, wondering if I've stirred up some bad memories.

"It's ok," Daedrya assures me, knocking another arrow into her bow, she lets it fly and it hits the target right in the center. "She came home a victor."

This girl means business, and I make my decision. Knocking an arrow into place, I act like I'm a bit unsure of my footing and then pull back. Aiming a bit high, I let the arrow loose. It flies and hits the target just above the middle, and I can tell Daedrya is a bit surprised.

"I thought you said you hadn't done this before," she says with a suspicious gaze.

"I lied," I confess simply, "But here's something that's the truth. I'm looking for another tribute or two to help me take down the careers, and I think I might have found one already."

"You mean me?" Daedrya asks, looking a bit surprised.

"Sure, you've trained excessively, I can tell. I trained nearly all the time back in District Five, and well, my district partner isn't much of anything. If we team up though, we may be able to bring down the careers with our…skills," I say, reaffirming my thoughts to her.

"Who else do you have in mind?" Daedrya questions, intrigue in her tone.

"No one as of yet, maybe you and I could do the trick?" I'm actually quite unsure; because I didn't think finding an ally would be this easy.

"Consider me a friend then," Daedrya says solidly, "But I think we might need another person."

"Then who are you thinking of?" I ask, still holding the bow slack in my hands.

"Someone on the inside, every career knows their alliance isn't permanent. Perhaps if we convinced one of them to give us information, we could promise them their life when we sack their base," Daedrya says, making total sense. I couldn't be a boy; they're too hotheaded when it comes to being in the career alliance. The girl from two looks a bit tough, like she would slit our throats and expose us if we asked. But the girl from four, she looks sweet, like she might listen to our plea.

"That way whoever we pick would feel extra safe, having two alliances. While we on the other hand get to learn the careers every move," I respond, and Daedrya nods her head.

"We have work to do Amerilia, and it doesn't involve shooting these arrows," Daedrya says, and I can already tell I'm going to like this alliance. Daedrya is strong, smart, and trained. She's like a taller version of me, but I still think I could beat her. If it comes to the worst situation, I have to prepared and able to kill her, and with no strings attached, Daedrya could be my answer to getting home.

* * *

**Rip Crevan- District Four**

"Look, I'm not going to fight you on this sweetheart," I say, staring down Cassia's stubborn face. "I'm older than you, I'm prepared to kill, and frankly, I'm a guy."

"Richard sweetie, don't get too caught up in that now, just because you're a tough guy doesn't make you better. Not saying I disagree though," Ula comments, making me a tad more agitated. I can't believe this twerp, Cassia, thinks she can lead the careers. District Four is the only career district that has retained both of its members. Jemima flat out refused when Avery brought it up to her this morning, saying she doesn't intend to do anyone harm. Who is she kidding? She's in the freaking Hunger Games!

Then there was Nero, Cassia's twin brother, who would have been perfect. Most of us are eighteen, in fact all of us are, but Nero just looked the part. Then Cassia tells us he thinks he's too good for us, well then screw him! We're left with only four tributes in our little alliance, which is probably still more than anything the others can put together, but still, they conspire against us the second they arrive. We are the biggest threat in this game, aside from whatever muttations the capitol has cooked up. That doesn't matter to me though, in most circumstances, but with two members out, we need others. If that wasn't enough for problems, now we can't come to a consensus on leadership, this must be the most discombobulated career pack to date.

"I'm completely qualified, more so than you. I saw your reaping video, don't think I didn't notice you wrapped up in chains crazy boy," Cassia taunts, causing me to completely lose it.

"Do you want to know why I'm going to lead this little group of ours sweetheart?" I ask Cassia coldly, gnashing my teeth and clicking my tongue.

"Enlighten me," She says with a smile.

"Because unlike you and everyone else in this group, I've killed before. Do you like your daddy? I didn't like mine; in fact he made life very hard for me and my mommy. See, daddy never loved us; he left when I was young and threw us to the dogs. Well, he never thought the son he discarded so lightly would play such a heavy part in his life, or should I say, the end of his life," I say menacingly, shutting Cassia up rather quickly.

"Now with this in mind," I say, narrowing my eyes, "Would you kindly get out of my way."

Cassia doesn't say a word, but everyone understands. I'm leading this group, no questions about it. We have work to do, and I can't have some whining girl get in our way. If she wants to be a career, she better act like one.

"Now," I say, looking at my three companions, "We need a few more recruits. We're not going to go to them, but let them come to us. We can't look desperate, we'll be able to kill a few but if they know we're desperate than the bloodbath might have more of our blood in it than we intend. So, I say we all carry on with our training and wait for the right ones to come to us."

Immediately, Avery is displeased with this plan, I can tell by the look on his face. Cassia has quieted down now, and Ula is always on my side, but Avery isn't too pleased.

"Why don't we just ask a few tributes, I'm sure we could find them easily? Like that kid over there," Avery nudges his head towards the boy from Seven as he talks and I groan with impatience.

"Listen pretty boy," I say hotly, agitation visibility showing in my eyes, "I thought we had already discussed how things are going to go around here."

"As if I'm going to let you walk over me," Avery spits, "I'm going to ask him right now."

"Fine then, be my guest," I hiss, watching him as he saunters his pretty little body over to the boy. You would think he would put on a shirt around all these weapons and rough conditions, but no, he's still got someone to impress even if he's going to die in a week or two.

I can see them conversing and Ula whispers something in my ear.

"Don't get too carried away Richard, we don't want you to lose control," she says calmly, giving me chills, which I don't normally get. There's something about Ula, something that makes me listen. I guess it's the fact that she's the first person I've met who hasn't cowered to me, who hasn't let me stomp all around her. People back in District Four turn the other way or change paths whenever I was out, which wasn't often, but still, people feared me. Ula treats me like I'm some kitten, which I find infuriating. But I'll let her have her fun, for now.

Avery comes back over, with the kid in tow.

"This is Revolc, he wants to be part of our team, what do we say Rip?" Avery asks me, putting on a fake smile. I just want to knock those shining white teeth right out of his pretty little mouth.

"We say screw off," I say as politely as possible.

"Is there a problem?" Revolc asks me, puffing out his chest. Oh great, just what we need, another gutsy and self-enthused jock. I guess he'll do, but he's Avery's to watch, I'm not going to put any eggs in that basket.

"Fine, but we recruit the next one my way," I say, looking between Revolc and Avery.

"Be careful," Ula says to Revolc with a smirk, "He bites."

"Shut up Ula," I say, half-serious. Ula smiles at me and departs, sashaying over to the knives section. Her departure cues the time to split up, we've been talking long enough. Without words, Cassia leaves for the swordplay arena and Revolc and Avery go to try their luck at the gauntlet. I have other ideas.

Heading to the knots station, I know exactly on how I plan to get the killing rolling. While everyone is just going to slash and hack their way through tributes, I intend on catching mine like the mindless little fish they are. I impress the station's trainer with a net I weave from rope in minutes, and soon I have my own little tribute-catching mechanism. First I think I'll catch them with my nets, then I'll use my trident to make them squirm. Yes that will do, that's how I'm going to do it.

In my thinking, I don't notice the girl leave the room, but my eyes lift instantly when the peacekeepers and trainers who were stationed in the room dart out immediately. All of us are stunned, confused as to what is happening.

"Who was that?" Revolc shouts from the gauntlet, and it's Nero, Cassia's twin brother who answers roughly, "The girl from One."

Everyone looks at Avery, expecting him to know something, but he holds up his hands and says, "Hey, she doesn't even talk to me. Goes on and on about how she refuses to kill anyone." All of us are on edge, wondering when the people who left the room will come back. Platinum wasn't among, he stayed to keep us in check.

"Everyone go back to training, this will all be sorted out in a moment," Platinum says sternly, but we all continue to look out the door.

"That's an order," he barks, and most of us listen. Save me of course, and the devious girl that is Ula. She comes across the room, over to me, and whispers something in my ear.

"She had a knife in her hands, I think she's gone insane," Ula says softly.

"Oh good, I'll have someone to talk to," I smirk.

Ula picks up on my joke and laughs to herself, twirling her hair in her fingers while I go back to tying nets. She joins me, fashioning her own set of fishing lines, making sure she can still do it in case that condition arises in the arena. Slowly, everyone goes back to training, until we hear the gunshot.

It startles all of us, I mean of course we weren't expecting it. The sound is faint, but we know what it is. Platinum immediately leaves, not saying a word to any of us. Some of the younger kids looked shocked, and none of us know what to think. Did the girl shoot someone? Did she get killed? My mind is racing with solutions to the problem. Ula looks at me, concern in her eyes. Quickly, I get up, walking over to the door.

"Hey Four! Stay inside the room!" A trainer yells, but I ignore him. Stepping outside the room cautiously, looking down the lengthy hallway for any signs of human activity, my search is futile. They come from the other direction, and Platinum drags me back into the room as he arrives. Several peacekeepers are holding something heavy; it's the limp body of the girl from one. None of us know how to react, why did they shoot her? What in hell is going on?

Several people wail and moan in disbelief and shock as one of the peacekeepers throws her lifeless body onto the ground. Avery can't stop staring though, his eyes are glued to the girl that was his district partner. The games haven't even begun and one of us is already dead.

"Jemima," Avery says with minimal breath, stunned at the scene.

"Listen up!" Platinum demands, and all of us peel our eyes off of Jemima and stare at him. Given the circumstances, even I am a bit intimidated.

"Jemima here got the idea to run away. She decided she didn't have to play this game. Well she did, and each and every one of you still do. This changes nothing, for the rest of the morning and afternoon, you will train. I've sent the word, and people are already headed to district one for a…reaping. Jemima thought she could make a difference, change the way things work around here. She even managed to stab old Mr. Hodges here with a knife before she was cut down. Of course the girl couldn't bring herself to do any real damage, so Mr. Hodges big toe will feel better in no time. Jemima was weak, the weakest among you. Don't feel bad for her when you realize at any moment, it could be you."

We're all stunned. Her body is dragged away and that is the end of it. Avery swallows and our group reconvenes. There are a few things we need to talk about now.

"You do realize the opportunity we've been given," I say at once, looking back and forth between everyone's eyes.

"God Rip, be human for a moment she was just shot," Avery pleads, obviously shaken up.

"There's no time for that here pretty boy," I chastise, "She would have died anyway in the arena, and the girl had the gall to deny us of a member. So, now that she's out of the way, perhaps this…new tribute they conjure up for us might give the career alliance something of a chance. Something Jemima didn't even consider."

Avery's downcast expression soon wipes away, and I realize the horrors of the games are beginning to materialize in his mind.

"You're right," he says roughly, "We need another member, and my new district partner can provide that when she comes, I'll make sure of it." Good, pretty boy is finally learning.

"Don't disappoint," I say with a snarl, "Or before you know it, you'll be looking a lot like Jemima." The words settle nicely, I can tell by the look in his eyes.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Avery replies with steel in his eyes, "Remember what Platinum said, at any moment, it could be you." With that the golden boy walks off, back towards the gauntlet with Revolc in tow. There's something about him that makes me want to claw his face off, but sing while doing it. Ula pats my shoulder and I shrug her off. Now is not the time to be comforting, now is the time to prepare. Something pretty boy needs to do, or he'll be leaving these games sooner than he expects.

* * *

**Nero Lepidus- District Two**

The news about Jemima was unsettling, but I could care less. I didn't know, I didn't intend to know her, and now that's something I don't have to worry about. Besides, now that she's gone, we'll probably get the run of the mill District One girl, all bubbly and slutty. I bet she's got blonde hair and a perfect body complete with zero brains. Perfect, she'll get on Cassia's nerves.

I can't stop thinking about Cassia and everything she's done to hurt me since yesterday morning. I didn't plan on getting reaped, and even though she's always wanted to throw herself into the Hunger Games, I don't understand why she couldn't have put her dream on hold when her twin brother was reaped. I didn't ask much of her, just not to devastate our parents completely in one single morning.

Right now, she's training with the swords, doing her best to take out her opponent. The trainer fighting her looks tired already, and soon his parry falters. Cassia pins him down and due to the grin on her face I can tell she's won. The trainer gets up, anger visibly imprinted upon his face, and storms off to the other side of the ring, waiting for another challenger. Cassia hangs the sword up on the rack and takes a second to shoot me a glare that she doesn't give me the chance to return. She's coming for me, and I'm worried I might not be prepared for it.

Jemima's death has given most of the tributes a shock. The younger ones are visibly upset, and some are even crying. They want to go home, they crave warmth and comfort. I on the other hand, have a mission to fulfill. My father asked a favor of me before I came here, and I plan on making that request come true. Cassia dared to sever our family, and now she's going to pay the price. I decide I'll be the next one to challenge the sword instructor, and I make my way up the few steps to the arena.

"Think you can beat me?" The instructor asks, wiping sweat off his brow with a grin.

"Apparently a girl can, so I don't think you'll be a problem," I say with my eyebrows raised. That gets him going, and directly after I pick up the sword he lunges. I weave to the left and block his blow with one of my own. Flicking my wrist, I carve the sword down the side of his, making instant contact with the hilt. Steeling myself for the impact, I rush forward and flip my arm around, bringing the sword towards his chest. He instantly deflects, but my next move is already planned. Hooking a foot around his heel, I soften his tendon and cause the right side of his body to falter. Hacking a path down to his chest with my sword, he stumbles a bit and doesn't expect the blow. Without a second to spare, he manages to drop down low and my sword misses him by inches.

"Good," he pants, "Sneaky, but good."

Deciding to turn up the intensity, I slash upwards with sword, towards his cheek. He parries me, and rolls around to side, trying to carve up my back. I don't give him the opportunity, and instead give him another blow to deflect while charging forwards. Nearly chest to chest, the two of us are locked together by metal, but I easily relinquish his hold on me. Pushing back, I swipe my sword across his chest, and the instructor has barely enough time to respond. Leaving a space between us, he jumps back and widens the gap. Now there's plenty of room to spare, and we begin to circle the arena, looking for weak points. The instructor thinks he's found mine and jabs downward, but I meet him halfway and flick my wrist so fast that he loses his grip on the weapon. Shock rises in his eyes and I bring the blade to his neck.

"I win," I say with a tiny smirk, and he looks even redder. Signaling to another trainer he's going to take a break, I feel content with my performance. I took him down faster than Cassia did, and she knows that, based on the looks she's giving me from her side of the room. She's over by the fire station, chatting with some girl I haven't gotten to meet yet. She's one of the careers though, and she looks mysterious. I think she's from District Four.

The call for lunch seems a bit early for my tastes, and I think they might have cut the morning session due to the incident. Several tributes are allowed to go back to their rooms to discuss the event with their mentors if they choose, and like I thought its most of the younger ones. Some leave just to get out of the training room, but not a single career moves a muscle. Neither do the two girls I saw chatting it up by the archery station earlier, they settle down to eat on one of the benches by the food bar. Eating berries and nuts, whatever women do for meals.

The careers are talking endlessly, and I notice the boy from Seven is with them now. I wonder how the boy from One feels about Jemima's death, I bet he didn't even talk to her. Cassia and I didn't even share words when we got to our rooms last night, and I don't think someone like Avery would grace a defenseless and unwilling girl like Jemima with conversation.

In my thoughts about the careers, my eyes shoot right over the girl who sits down alone. Then I find her, munching on some sandwich all by herself. I haven't really noticed her yet, but she looks like the lone wolf kind of girl, and there's nothing else to do, so I sit down next to her.

"Shouldn't you be lifting rocks or whatever tough guys from District Two do?" She asks with a venomous tone.

"I'm not like them," I say at once, trying to dissuade her of her preconceived notions. "I'm not a career."

"I noticed you weren't with them, why not?" She asks at once, intrigued by my difference.

"The girl from two happens to be my sister, and unlike her, I don't take pleasure in killing defenseless children," I explain, and the girl's eyes widen.

"That's horrible, I could never survive if my sister were here with me," She says, shocked by my circumstances.

"You have a sister?" I ask, wondering who this girl is.

"Yeah, back in nine, I'd prefer not to talk about her though, only makes me sad," she explains, and I change the topic.

"My name's Nero, care if I join you?" I ask.

"Seems a bit late to ask, but no I don't mind, the name is Ember by the way," She says with a hint of a laugh.

"Well Ember, you seemed pretty confident with that bow earlier, sorry if that sounds creepy," I comment, making her blush a bit.

"Creepiness aside, thanks, I watched that sword fight, you did better than anyone else so far today," She compliments, and I scratch the back of my neck, making my golden hair sway a bit.

"You know, I think together, you and I, we could do some damage to the careers. Plus, I'm pretty sure the girls from Five and Eight have aligned, and they look deadly with those bows. Not saying we have to talk to them, I don't want to, but if you and I team up, and those girls have it in for the careers as well…," Ember finishes my words with her own,

"They'd go down in a heartbeat."

"Exactly," I say.

Ember slowly nods her head, and then looks at me, studying my eyes, "You've got a deal."

I know what this means, and it makes me so happy I have to smile. Cassia's time is running short, and the promise I made to father will be so much easier to fulfill.

* * *

**Revolc Undercity- District Seven**

I wasn't really surprised at all when Avery came to me, I was intending on joining the careers but I guess I looked so good that they had to have me. Then, when I learned that Rip was leading us, things got a little sour for me. I don't have a problem with anyone, until they have a problem with me. Things were already difficult enough for the careers before I worsened the feud between Avery and Rip, but I really don't care. Being a part of the careers will get me closer to home, and if I have to sink a sword into both of their necks then I won't have a problem doing it.

Then Jemima got shot, and Rip got all excited at the prospect of another chance at the District One girl. It's a safe bet in my opinion to think she'll join us, but Rip makes it seem like Avery has a lot of work to do in order to get her on our side. I guess he's just prepared for the worst, which is good in my mind. Our leader should be thinking like that, regardless of whether he's crazy or not. I did see his reaping video though, and the fact that he was escorted by a handful of peacekeepers and had his hands and feet shackled made me a bit nervous. Avery already filled me in on his "qualifications", apparently the kid killed his father.

My father's been gone for a while, but Rocky has done a pretty good job at being man of the house. I'm glad he is here with me, otherwise my confidence might feel substantially lower. But Rocky's here, and knowing he'll be watching from the victor's lounge makes me want to put on a show for him and come home, to make my mom proud and be able to say she has not one, but two victors for sons.

"Hey Revolc, why don't we check out the knife throwing," Avery says to me as soon as the lunch break is finished, and I don't mind. I like Avery a lot, but I wish the kid would put on a shirt. My body is pretty close to his in terms of muscles and condition, and I can keep my shirt on, so why can't he? I understand he was a model and everything, but now he's here, in the Hunger Games. He might want that extra protection.

We reach the knife throwing station and I give the target's some noticeable scars. Sinking my projectiles right in the middle of most of them, Avery is pretty impressed. He admits he's not one for throwing knives, and I can tell by the way he tosses them. A few hit the targets, but most of them clatter to the floor. Avery's strength is in close combat though, I saw him with a sword this morning and I wouldn't want to piss him off.

We are deep into a sparring match at the hand to hand combat station when Ula comes over, her face all pursed up and wary. Ula's definitely got some secrets, but I could care less. She's shown her proficiency at the throwing knife station, and her handling of the tridents isn't bad either. Her and Rip could go far in this game, if we manage to stick together as a group for quite a while.

"Guys, Cassia wants to talk," Ula says, her voice making it sound urgent. Rip is locked in an intense match with the swordplay trainer, but it's not the same guy from this morning. While he's busy, I guess Cassia wants to have our own little group discussion. We follow Ula to the climbing wall, far from the view of Rip, who is still in a frenzied battle.

"You wanted to talk, here we are," Ula says, sounding a bit annoyed with Cassia.

"Rip scares me, so I didn't want to bother him while he was in the middle of that, but I've become aware of something that may pose a problem," Cassia says, looking over towards the spear station, where her brother is standing.

"Nero has teamed up with the girl from Nine, who looks pretty accurate with that bow, I'm pretty sure he's recruiting tributes to go against us, sort of like some anti-career alliance," Cassia explains, causing Avery and Ula to look a bit unconcerned.

"Cassia, the anti-career alliances always fail, and besides, when the new District One girl gets here we'll have an extra ally," Avery explains, causing Cassia to look irritated.

"You're missing the point Avery," she puts emphasis on his name, "Nero is strong, ridiculously strong, so if we don't do something…," Ula cuts off her words.

"What? He's going to kill us all? Fat chance," Her words are lathered in sarcasm.

"Whatever then, just don't cry to me when Nero plunges a sword through your heart," Cassia whines and stalks back to the fire station, where she failed miserably this morning.

"She's paranoid, but I would be too if he was my brother and he was here," Ula comments, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she walks off. Avery shrugs and the two of us continue hitting most of the stations. We visit poisonous plants for a moment, not really caring because we'll have all the food at the cornucopia. We don't visit knot tying either, but I show Avery how to build fires and then we race at the climbing. Soon enough, the alarm goes off signaling it's the end of training, and we all file out of the room.

"See you tomorrow then," Avery says as we part ways, and I say some parting words before heading back to the room where I know Rocky is waiting. When I enter, he's sitting at the table, looking visibly upset. I'm here before Maple, but Alfie is here too, sipping on some dark liquor.

"What's up?" I ask Rocky, concern in my greeting.

"A tribute was killed this morning," Rocky says, closing his eyes.

"Yeah," I say, nonchalant about it, "I was there."

"You don't understand the effect this will have," Rocky says, his voice breaking, "When the citizens of the capitol look up and see the girl from District One is not the beautiful young girl they saw at the chariot rides, they're going to be confused. Then there's the girl's family, who could rightly take out claims on the capitol. It's not against the law, it just rarely happens. If the citizens of the capitol get confused, then the games tank, and the gamemakers could face serious punishment, along with the peacekeepers and undoubtedly the president's favorite little toys."

"The victors," I say, understanding Rocky's grief. I didn't realize that shooting Jemima would create such a calamity, but it makes sense. The capitol citizens will want to know what happened, and when the president learns that a tribute couldn't be controlled, things might get ugly. My thoughts are a blur, and I forget to tell Rocky about how I joined the careers at first, but then fill him in.

"That's one thing to look forward to," Alfie says as Maple walks in.

"Where have you been?" Rocky asks her the second she walks in.

"I was at the top of the climbing wall when training ended, so it took me a little bit to come down," she explains, and Rocky simply nods his head. Maple looks at me, fear in her eyes. I guess she knows I've joined the careers, but I'm still waiting on Rocky's verdict on the decision.

"That's good," he says after what feels like an eternity, "You're being smart, which is essential."

"Please don't hurt me," Maple says suddenly, distracting my attention.

"What?" I say, caught off guard.

"If you and your career friends find me, just don't hurt me, I don't want you to do it," Maple says, serious about her words.

"Alright," I say, indifferent about her concerns. She's obviously not going to win these games, so why does she care who takes her out? It doesn't matter; I don't say anything as she heads upstairs.

"Dinner is in an hour," Alfie instructs as Maple heads up the stairs, and she doesn't reply. I guess with Jemima's death and my joining the careers, she has a lot to worry about, but I feel rather confident as I head upstairs to rinse off the sweat of today's training. I've found my way into the careers, and soon I will find my way home.

* * *

**Allure Shine- District One**

**Courtesy of richards25**

If you've ever had a nightmare, then you might be able to fathom what happened to me this morning. I was at breakfast, with my family, completely done worrying about the Hunger Games. I'm eighteen now, and yesterday's reaping signaled the end of the constant worry and training over the Hunger Games. Then, all of our televisions, every single one in District One, instantly turned on, demanding a mandatory meeting in the square.

I was shocked at first, wondering what this could mean. Things like this never happen, and whatever this was, it was going to get in the way of Silk and I's shopping excursion this afternoon. I need some new tops, and Silk wanted to try some new make-up out, so it's not like I've got time to attend sudden district meetings. It would have been nice if we could have gotten some advanced notice.

Then the horror unfolded right in front of us. Tatyana Gibbs, our district escort, was back, magenta clothes and all. Mayor Gamble explained the situation to us, and Galaxy Andross had come back as well. The mayor explained how Jemima, that girl who had been reaped, tried to break out of the Games complex. Apparently she killed a peacekeeper and stabbed several other people, causing a great scene. They had no choice but to shoot her, which meant a new tribute was needed. A girl and a boy instantly broke down; I think it was her friend and boyfriend, if I remember correctly. I know it was only yesterday but a girl has more pressing things to remember, not the life story of some girl who was reaped.

So I thought, ok Allure, it's not like it's going to be you. They put the reaping bowl back out on stage and instantly everyone freaked out. I mean I've trained, so I wouldn't have a problem going in. Thankfully I'm from District One, so joining the career pack wouldn't be a problem. My dad wants me to prove my worth to his fortunes anyhow, so winning the games deserves an inheritance right?

Then out of every stupid name in that bowl, Tatyana called mine. My mom broke down completely, and my dad said some motivational crap. It was Silk who really touched my heart though, I mean she said she would still buy those tops for me, isn't that sweet? She's my bff, and I know I have to win so I come home, not for my airhead mother or my bossy dad, but for Silk, because she's like a sister to me.

So, now here I am, in the capitol, and they're marching me through some dark building to what's apparently my room? I'm not quite sure where they're leading me, but I know the District One apartment is on the first floor, so when we take the elevator to the third floor, something is amiss. It doesn't take long, but they have me take some dumb aptitude test because I missed the first day of training. After that I'm lead to my room, and that's when I meet him.

Avery Reid is sitting on the couch, wearing only a pair of super tight black briefs. Every chiseled feature of his body is exactly how it looks in the magazines, and his eyes are so beautiful. Pink is my favorite color, but it can easily become purple. His platinum blonde hair swooshes to the side when I walk in, and the peacekeepers converse with a woman who I'm guessing is one of the mentors. He says something about how Galaxy isn't coming back, and Tatyana struts in behind me. The peacekeepers close the door, and I can hear the sharp sound of a lock being turned. I look back at the door and realize this is it; I'm going into the Hunger Games, with Avery Reid.

"Allure," the woman says, drawing my attention.

"Hmm," I say, not taking my eyes off of Avery.

"Allure look at me," she says, and I move my gaze to her. It's Sapphire, one of our many mentors, and she smiles sweetly.

"I'm deeply sorry this had to happen you, I know you're eighteen, you must've thought you were free," As she says this, it feels true in my heart. Her words are right, I thought it was over, I could finally just live life and not have to worry about anything. I could build a family, earn my father's inheritance, it was going to be wonderful. But now I am here, with Tatyana Gibbs, Sapphire Mallory, and Avery Reid.

"I'm sorry too," I say, and the words carry weight.

"Your bags are in your room, the second day of training is tomorrow," Sapphire says quietly, and then she takes her leave. Tatyana yawns, mumbles something about all the hard work she does, and then clumsily walks off to bed in her heels. It is late at night, the quasi-reaping was near the end of morning and I had to take the train ride, get preened by my stylists, even though I didn't meet my main one yet, she was busy with something, not expecting to work today. After that I had to take that dumb aptitude test and now I'm here. I should go to bed, there's training and the whole whirlwind of the Hunger Games to attend to, but Avery Reid is sitting on that leather couch over there, and he's nearly naked.

"Hey," I mumble, flipping my long blonde hair behind my shoulders. I'm tall, and I make sure my legs extend fully as I walk. My pale green eyes have flecks of light brown in them, and I train them on Avery from where I am.

"Hi," he says, his purple eyes aglow.

"I'm sorry you got roped into this," he says apologetically, "But I think I can make things a bit better for you." He likes what he sees, but I know enough about boys to not give them what they want right away. Sitting down next to him, we're pretty close, and I shy away at his touch.

"I don't know if you can, it's been a hectic day and I'm pretty tired," I say, backing up a bit and laying down on the couch. He stretches his arms behind his head, fully displaying those pectorals for me. I'm totally into him, but I decide to let the chase continue.

"Why don't you come lay your head on me?" He asks, with a gleam in his eye.

"Oh, I don't know if that's allowed," I say, turning away from him.

"It's late," he says, "They're all asleep, no one will know."

He wants me too, but I don't give in, not today. If Avery Reid is interested in me, he's going to have to come and get me. Rising from the couch, I plant a firm kiss on his lips, feeling some of his blonde stubble. It turns me on even more, but I turn on my heels and head for the room Sapphire pointed me to.

Avery doesn't say a word, but I know I made the right move. I may be in the Hunger Games, and I may not make it out alive, but there's no reason to not have a little fun when it presents itself, right?

* * *

**Oh My Goodness. What a First Day of Training. Thanks to richards25 for this awesome tribute and I'm sure things have shaken up quite because of this chapter, wouldn't you say? Sorry if there were any Jemima fans out there, but I just didn't know how to write a total peace advocate in a setting like the Hunger Games. Her blatant refusal to pick up a weapon made alliances tough to think up and I just thought it was best for the story. Tell me what you thought of the new alliances formed this chapter, Amerilia and Daedrya, Revolc and the Careers, Nero and Ember? And what will become of Allure and Avery's kiss? We're getting closer and closer to that 100 review mark, so don't stop now! I warned you this chapter would be long, so expect more like this! I figured you'd like more to read anyway.**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


	20. Honor Among Thieves

**A/N: Ok, so I now I've been gone for a little while, right when I said chapters would be getting a lot more frequent. Well the past week has been phenomenally busy and every chance I've had to write has been met with a severe case of writer's block. But I'm back now, and the show will go on! Or the story in the case, but whatever, because here is…The Second Day of Training!**

**Oh yes, one more thing...WOOO WE'VE REACHED OVER 100 REVIEWS! THAT IS PHENOMENAL! IT'S ALL BECAUSE OF YOU GUYS, THE READERS, SO BE SURE TO KEEP UP WHAT YOU'RE DOING!**

* * *

**Omri Grain- District Nine**

Waking up, it still feels like a dream. Like some horrible nightmare that has me in its grip, not letting me go no matter how hard I thrash and scream. The orphanage, still so clear in my mind, is so distant now, far behind the streets of the capitol. I can feel the damp texture of my soft down pillow still, soaked from my tears the night before. I haven't been stable since we've left District Nine, my heart aches and my eyes sting from all this emotion, but I'm just not ready to die. I'm not ready. I won't ever be, until the moment some bloodthirsty career's sword runs through my stomach, then I will come to terms with death. When it's over.

I already know I'm predestined for the bloodbath, even Sage, one of our mentors, told me so. Sitting on the train, his eyes were all over Cynthia, and he eventually came out and said it once we began talking about our prospects for victory.

"Well this one here," I remember him saying, pointing at me with a gnarled hand, "This one here won't even be able to lift a sword, just watch him d-d-dash our chances as soon as he sets foot in t-t-that arena." The old man grumbled at me from the morning to the evening, griping about how District Nine will never get another victor if tributes like me keep getting sent in. Then he laid his eyes on Cynthia, and he hasn't removed them since. Our other mentor, Astrid, is pretty much silent, except for one thing she said on the train.

"I don't take stock in kids like you," she spat from her standing position by the window, "Nine won't have another victor like me."

"Like you?" Sage guffawed, "What about me honey? The Third Annual Hunger Games were just smashing!" It's true, Sage won his games forty-six years ago, making him sixty-four years old today. The old curmudgeon spends most of his time the victor's lounge, drinking and carrying on with the older and more revered victors. Not too many victors that come are the older ones, but since Nine only has two, Sage is obligated.

So, without a mentor willing to teach me I had tried to learn, and what a mistake that had been. Yesterday was a train wreck in terms of training, I'm not strong or quick enough to do much and my skills aside from fighting are limited. I can't start a fire nor can I tell you what plants will hurt or help you. I'm basically a walking target, and I decided to hasten my accelerating approach towards death by skipping breakfast, which I was late to anyways and head straight for the training complex.

Most of the tributes are already there, due to my knack for sleeping past deadlines. The careers are spread out all over the place, and my eyes quickly scan over an unfamiliar face, a girl with beautiful blonde hair filling a target with arrows in the most accurate places. Not even flinching, she looses another one and the target gets another arrow lodged in its frame, right near the middle. Her accuracy is deadly, each arrow she fires hits its intended target, but the grace and poise she carries herself with makes the exercise seem more like art. I guess I'm standing there for quite some time, goggling over the new girl, who I presume is replacing Jemima.

Jemima. That whole event was horrible; I even had nightmares about it. The poor girl, older than me, just wanted to get back home; she didn't want to die at the hands of some malicious teenager in the same scenario. My mind can't erase the spot of blood dampening her chest where the bullet entered; the macabre stain has permanently etched itself into my brain. Her limp body dangled from the hands of the grisly peacekeepers, their white uniforms and placid demeanor making the murder seem like a daily occurrence. It's just business to them, an annual event that calls for parties and salary hikes, but to us, it's a living, breathing, walking, nightmare.

My thoughts ward off the desire to train, and knowing my fate; I decide to glumly plop down on a bench near the poisonous plants section, far from the main activity of the room. Resting my head in my hands, grieving for myself, I don't even notice the boy from Eleven approach, and when he does, I'm about as surprised at his brazenness as he is.

"Something I can do for you?" I mutter, not wanting to engage in conversation. The boy, a gleam in his eyes that tells me he's up to something, almost instantly replies to my monotone question.

"Actually I was hoping you could," he states, "I'd like to make a deal."

Is he kidding? What does this dumb kid want? Sure I'm probably only a year or a few months older than him, but I don't think I was that stupid when I was twelve. I don't even know his name, yet I get this strange feeling that he wants something along the lines of an alliance. Which wouldn't make sense to me, I mean why would he pick me of all people?

"What kind of deal?" I stammer after what's more than a few moments, and he jumps to the reply once more.

"An alliance," he says boldly, "I think us younger boys need to band together, that way we won't be picked off the second we enter the arena."

His words are true, but I'm still confused as to why he would pick me. If I were to consider his offer, possibly build an alliance between us and whatever other younger boys there are, then we might be able to slide past the bloodbath. Not saying victory would even be a fathomable prospect at that point, but making it past the opening act of this horrific little game would be nice.

"Is there anyone else in mind?" I ask, and then pause to collect a few thoughts. "I don't even know your name," I state.

"Auric Zola," The boy says proudly, "And to answer your question the boy from Five looks like he could use a hand. My personal problem with these games is that the weaker tributes are never given a chance, so if we could all band up, we might be able to make it out of there. I didn't catch your name either," He says quite amiably. Auric doesn't seem to have a problem with meeting new people, whereas my orphan background has caused me to be a bit apprehensive of people who call themselves your friends.

"I'm Omri, and his name is Caramen," I say, not responding to most of what he said.

"You mean the boy from Five?" Auric asks, nodding his head to the small red-headed child over by the gauntlet. We turn to watch him try his luck against the behemoth of a course. He makes it past the first set of swinging platforms, but the side panel that springs up from the side knocks him flat on his back and the trainer manning the station sharply blows his whistle. The shrill cry of the instrument lets me know Caramen is out, and Auric raises his eyebrows.

"See what I mean?" He asks, "We have to band together."

Nothing good has happened to me since I left District Nine only two days ago. I've spent most of my time moping and sniveling over the approaching end of my life, and I've let precious time meant for preparation slip away from me. Now, I'm being given an opportunity, an opportunity that probably won't present itself again. If Auric, Caramen and I could band together and make it past the bloodbath, well, I don't know what could happen.

"I'm in," I say suddenly, slightly shocking Auric.

"Really?" He says, seeming surprised.

"It's a good idea," I admit, "We're going to need all the help we can get, so I just thought it'd be foolish to turn you down."

"Then I think it's time we pay Caramen a visit," Auric says, and the two of us nod in agreement as we head towards the area near the gauntlet, where Caramen is catching his breath.

"What do you want two want? Here to make fun of me?" Caramen says in a pitiable voice, his hair drenched with sweat and plastered to his face.

"Quite the opposite," Auric says with his arms crossed, "We're here to make you a deal."

Laughing to myself at Auric's business-like manner, warmth starts to enter my body for the first time in two days. Caramen looks at him, not knowing what to say, so Auric continues.

"Omri and I are in an alliance, and we thought you might like to join us," Auric explains, and Caramen's eyes instantly light up. The cerulean seems to dance in his irises, and he looks up at my companion and me with a soft expression on his face.

"Why'd you pick me?" He asks, not answering Auric's proposal.

"I believe, well we believe," he changes his speech after glancing at me, "That us younger boys who don't seem to stand much of a chance should team up, that way we won't be helplessly slaughtered when the bloodbath begins."

Caramen takes all of this in and comments, "It is a good plan. Count me in." Like that, our triad is complete, and feeling more confident about my position in these games, I happily follow Auric and Caramen back to the gauntlet, where Auric suggests we run through it.

"But I just did," Caramen complains and Auric shoots him a disapproving look.

"We can't give up when we fall," Auric says, "Or else we'll end up where we don't want to." His optimism is obvious as he climbs the scaffold to the gauntlet, and even though he's only twelve I can see he's a true leader. I was so worried yesterday as I watched Cynthia team up with that boy from Two, not understanding why he refused to join the careers. She had an ally and I didn't, and I felt absolutely awful. But now I've got two allies, more than she does, and perhaps these games won't be as gruesome for me as I think.

* * *

**Auric Zola- District Eleven**

I didn't expect my idea to work out as simply as that, I thought perhaps either one of them or both might need a bit more cajoling in order to agree, but it seems as if the second I brought up the request, both of them happily complied. I've got two allies now, whereas I had none this morning, and I bet Amber is still squirming in the dirt trying to find someone to watch her back.

It's not that I don't like Amber, because she's actually pretty cute, it's just that I don't see myself as anywhere close to a worthy ally of her. The second we boarded that train, she immediately put on some stuck up air that seemed foreign to her nature, from what I had learned of her during the reaping. On stage, Amber looked scared, almost as if she was pleading with someone to take her place. That look quickly evaporated as we boarded the train, and she instantly neglected conversation with me. Her expression and the way she cut her eyes at me suggested I was some sort of dirty creature, which might be pretty accurate. All the capitol showers in the world can't get rid of the scent of District Eleven's orchards.

The thought drives me towards home, and I think about everything I left behind. My thoughts are with my family at first, but slowly they drift to Melodia. She is so beautiful; I would give anything just to see her face one more time. I don't know if she's at home or in the orchards now, but I can still envision her face, the sweet red cheeks, her warm smile, all of it is still imprinted in my mind.

"Hey Auric, are you going to go?" Omri asks from behind me, and I realize I slipped into my fantasy while standing on the edge of the gauntlet. A bit embarrassed, my own cheeks flush as everyone gives me a pressing stare. Wiping my thoughts of Melodia and home from my mind, I put one foot forward and rush forth at the sound of the trainer's mark.

The first set of swinging pads is easy to jump over, and I've learned from watching others to lean to the left when the surprise panel pops up. Swiftly weaving my way in and out of the emerging panels, I reach the small gap before the swinging batons that are supposed to act like deadly pendulums. Steeling myself for any possible impact, I race forward and narrowly dodge the first and second ones. The third one clips my shoulder though, and I grimace in pain and nearly trip as my footing is knocked awry by the collision. Smacking into the fourth and final pendulum, my body tumbles off the gauntlet and onto the padded floor below.

The whistle's shrill call splits the air around me, signaling that the next tribute needs to get ready.

Omri goes next, and doesn't make it two steps before one of the initial spinning platforms knocks him off his feet and swiftly to the ground.

The whistle follows.

Caramen makes it a bit farther, but right after he gets past the spinning platforms, the same surprise panel that felled him earlier delivers his doom. Lying on the floor, all three of us are out of breath, the trials of the gauntlet obviously too much for us yet.

"We'll get it by tomorrow," I say encouragingly to my team, not wanting them to get disappointed in our newly formed alliance.

"If we make it to tomorrow," Omri says in a defeated tone, much to my annoyance.

We decide to disperse at that point, with Omri heading off to try and learn some pointers about archery and Caramen wanting to test his luck at the climbing wall. I decide to head to the camouflage station, in hopes of being able to learn how to effectively hide myself from threats like hungry careers.

"Welcome," a dark woman says, her lustrous black hair tied in a tight bun, "Anything in specific you're trying to learn?"

"How to hide myself," I say bluntly, wondering what else you can learn from camouflage.

"I'd suppose so," the woman remarks, her voice like velvet, "But what I really meant is what would you like to look like? A tree? A patch of grass? A fixture of rocks?"

Her questions intrigue me, and I settle on learning how to blend into some rocks, because I think if I was hiding in the first place, it would be somewhere like a cave.

She tells me her name is Nyria, and her delicate hands teach me how to effectively blend myself with my surroundings. We spend time painting my body with different sorts of textures so as to most convincingly conceal myself within my environment. Nyria is nice enough, not talking much except when to instruct. Eventually, I look exactly like a rock, well my arm does, and I thank her for her instruction and wash the gritty material off my forearm. With some new knowledge in hand, the alarm for lunch blares at the perfect time, and I reconvene with Omri and Caramen.

Trusting in my alliance mates, I share my newly learned skills with them, but it's Omri who has the news to deliver.

"I picked something up from the careers while I was at the archery station, apparently there are the beginnings of an anti-career alliance amongst us," he says with a hushed voice, barely a whisper.

"Do you know who's in it?" Caramen asks quietly, matching his tone to that of Omri's.

"The boy from Two and my district partner, Cynthia," Omri answers, "There's also a duo of the girl from your district Caramen and the girl from Eight. The careers were saying that if the two alliances combined…," He is interrupted by my announcement of our parallel thoughts.

"Then the careers would be met with a force to reckon with," I say, finishing his sentence. Omri nods solemnly, and Caramen absorbs the information. The four tributes Omri mentioned have displayed absolute prowess in several areas of the complex over the past two days. Omri's district partner Cynthia is absolutely deadly with a bow in her hands, and the boy from Two and Caramen's district partner wield a sword with total power and confidence. The girl from Eight seems well-rounded entirely, and nearly all of them appear to be trained, except maybe for Omri's district partner.

"Humph," Caramen grunts after a few moments, "This could prove to be an interesting mix."

The words don't sound like his, but the statement is true. If the careers were busy with an alliance against them, they won't have time to hunt the weaker tributes. This would give us as an alliance an advantage, and we may be able to play off the damage contributed to the careers by the newly formed anti-career group.

"Boys," I say, with a smile on my face, "We might just make it farther than we thought."

* * *

**Aden Hanran- District Eight**

As the alarm bell sounds for the end of lunch and the resumption of the afternoon sessions, I begin to grow a bit desperate. It's not that I'm feeling in danger of an early death, because I've held my own in training thus far, it's just that I need some allies. I won't make it by myself out there; I've always had people to rely on and people to rely on me. It's just how I've always been, and going into the arena without a few fallbacks isn't my cup of tea.

I resume my practice with the throwing knives, chucking each silver blade into a different target. They all land pretty accurately, but a few land in the places a bit to the side of the middle, disappointing me slightly. I know it'd still be a hit, but if I want to survive I have to perform flawlessly. My worries about allies still bog me down as I put the knives back on the table, when suddenly the girl from Twelve is in my face.

"Can I get a bit of space?" I ask awkwardly, not understanding her sudden interest in me.

"You can throw those knives pretty well," she remarks, not addressing her creepy entrance.

"You still haven't told me why you're talking to me, I'm pretty sure I didn't even exist in your world up until a few moments ago," I comment, making her focus her attention on me instead of the knives on the table. Coming a bit closer, encroaching upon my personal space, she says,

"Wrong, you did exist. I've been watching you since yesterday, because I think you and I share similar…backgrounds."

"And what would that similarity be?" I ask a bit peevishly.

"We're thieves," she says brusquely, "I can tell by the way you read a room, by the way you look at what people are holding before you look at their faces. I know you are good with hand to hand combat are close-chested weapons. I also see you eat the food at lunch like you're never going to eat again, only indicative of one thing."

"You gathered all of that from simply watching me?" I ask a bit confused.

"It's pretty easy to pick out your own kind," she says in that same mysterious, flirtatious voice.

"So, what if I told you that your guess was wrong?" I ask, trying to see how she handles pressure. I don't need allies who fold at the first sign of trouble.

"Then I'd call you a liar," Sasha spits, almost venomously. Apparently she doesn't have time for games, which I like.

"You'd be correct," I say, quieter, but loud enough for her to hear.

"I thought so, I'm hardly ever wrong," she says with a confident little smirk. She is pretty cute, but nothing like Lena. My mind drifts back to my family, and before I can picture the faces of my sweet girls, Sasha breaks up my thoughts yet again.

"So, what do you say?" She asks, hand outstretched.

"Deal," I reply, shaking her hand, not expecting the tough grip she gives it. This girl may put on the front that she's a wily little temptress, but deep down she's tough as nails.

"It can't be just us though," she says with concern, "We're going to need another ally, for more coverage and reliability in the arena." She sounds like she's played this game before, like it's some sport and she's the coach, picking the best team.

"Who do you have in mind?" I ask, wondering who the final member to our trio of thieves could be.

"The boy from Six, he may not be much to look at, but I can tell who he is," She responds, eyeing him over at the swordplay arena.

"Like how you deciphered me?" I ask, raising my left eyebrow.

"Exactly," she murmurs, and begins to make her way across the complex. She makes sure to swing her hips as she walks, swishing them from side to side. Her olive skin and brilliant auburn hair shine under the bright lights of the complex, and she glows with a radiance that commands attention. Sasha knows how to use her beauty to manipulate others, and I don't know if she'll have my back as much as I'll have hers in the arena. Sauntering right over to the swordplay arena, she reaches the boy from Six, who is taking a break to get some water. She strikes up the conversation, while I stand from afar, letting my ringlet of red curls hang into my eyes. The boy tries to sneak a casual glance in my direction, but I catch his gaze and he quickly averts eye contact.

I decide to walk over there, not giving Sasha the chance to strut all the way back across the complex.

"Good afternoon," I say to the boy, bowing a bit, "I've heard Sasha wants you to be a part of our team." I use my mock regality and put emphasis on my words to try and intimidate him, see if he'll want to be in an alliance with someone older like myself. I can tell he and Sasha are a few years younger than me, so I might be able to use that to my advantage to steer a bit of control from Sasha.

"Yeah," he finally stammers, "She was just saying that she wants to align the tributes with darker backgrounds, make some sort of rogue's alliance."

"I'm Aden," I introduce myself, "And Sasha and I are looking for someone with your talents to help us…advance a bit further so we don't get killed too soon."

"Loot," The boy says.

"What? No, there's nothing to steal, we just want to…," He cuts me off.

"I'm not stupid," he barks, "My name is Loot."

"Oh," I say, a bit embarrassed.

"So," Sasha says, breaking the barrier of awkwardness that surrounds us, "Are you in or are you out?" Her question is directed at Loot, and he shuffles his feet before replying with,

"Sure I'm in, it'd be good to have a few allies."

"Well as leader…," Sasha tries to begin but I swiftly cut her off.

"This group has no leader," I say sternly, "We've got each other's backs and that's that, we don't need a leader to cooperate. We're not the careers."

My words stun her for a moment, but then Loot slowly nods, "He's right, we should act more like a team and not have to rely on someone for judgment."

Sasha seemed a bit perturbed, but she agrees to my resolution. We won't be able to work if one of us is bossing the rest around, and although Sasha is one to be hungry for power, I know that she'll abide by the code. After all, we are a band of thieves right? There's got to be some honor, even among us.

* * *

**Cynthia Pratt- District Nine**

Not much has been said between Nero and I since this morning. We've just acknowledged one another as an ally and moved on to honing our skills before the games begin. We only have one more day to train after this, so we might as well cynosure our priorities on that instead of chit chat like the careers.

Their presence annoys me with each passing minute. The new girl, Allure, can't stop wrapping her arm around Avery and acting like he's her boyfriend or something. I don't even want to think about what they're up to when they go back to their room, but I know it's not for the eyes of some of the younger tributes. My thoughts drift back to Nero as I knock another arrow into the bow provided by the station, and what he said to me this morning.

"Ember," he said as he approached me, his golden hair just hanging into his eyes, "The word is that there's another alliance targeted at the careers, see if you can pick up any more information." Those beautiful golden eyes were trained right on me as he said those words, and I guess I got wrapped up in my day dream about him that I forgot to inquire more into this new alliance. I'm not going to say that I like Nero or anything, not like that, but I can't refrain from saying he's cute. The boy has shining golden hair and matching eyes that just melt your heart. It's more of a dumb crush than it is any real feeling, so I won't be fawning over his chiseled body while other tributes kill one another, no, I'll still be there, fighting alongside him.

I haven't even noticed how spectacularly perfect the girl next to me is at shooting until I take a quick break to get a drink and flush my mind of thoughts of Nero. She's tall, with voluminous red hair and hawk-like eyes. Her footing and placement are perfect, and she's loading and loosing arrows quicker than even I can. I don't like feeling second, I've always strived to be better, at school, against my sister, mostly anything. The feeling I get when someone does better than me bubbles inside of me right now, and it's something called jealousy.

"Hey," I say to the girl as she shoots, causing the arrow to veer right a little bit due to the startle I caused her.

"You made me miss," she spits, "There better be a good reason for that."

"Just saying hello," I answer, causing her anger to flare for a moment, but then subside.

"Sorry if I came off angry," she apologizes.

"You're forgiven," I say with a laugh, "Was there something bothering you?"

"I've been on my toes all day, and I don't know why I'm telling you this, but my alliance mate and I have been trying to determine who amongst us is out for the careers, and the other tributes just don't seem unified enough to focus on such a goal."

It's her! This girl, and whoever her alliance mates is, they're the ones Nero and I have been looking for!

"Well, I might be able to let you in a little secret," I whisper, causing her eyes to show visible signs of intrigue, the green irises focusing on my pursed lips, waiting to see what words will emerge next.

"My alliance mate and I have been looking for you, we're the other duo that's out for the careers. Sure, there are other alliances formed, those young boys have been hanging out all day and it looks like the scrawny boy from Six has teamed up with that girl from Twelve and the boy from Eight, but my partner and I are the ones you're looking for," I confess, causing a sly smile to appear on her face.

"My name is Daedrya," she says in reply, "I think you and I can make a deal. What's your name? I don't think I've caught it yet?"

"Cynthia, but I go by Ember," I explain, "What sort of deal would this be?"

"Say us two and you two team up? Then the careers would have something to worry about wouldn't they?" She paints the picture with her questions, mapping out my exact thoughts.

"I think they'd have a lot to worry about," I say diabolically, growing excited with the prospect of destroying the careers.

"Give me five minutes to talk to Amerilia, and then we'll all meet behind the Climbing Wall alright?" Daedrya asks and I let her go with a nod. Deciding to spread the news to Nero, I dart to the gauntlet, where he emerges from the other side, having successfully completed the course.

"What's up?" He asks, giving his sweaty hair a flick to the side. God he looks good, shirt plastered to his chest with sweat, pectorals and abdominals perfectly defined. Oh right, I've got to tell him something.

"I found the other anti-career group, they're meeting us behind the Climbing Wall, let's go," I say, but he appears hesitant.

"Sure it's them?" He asks dubiously, "What if they kill us the second we meet up in the arena?"

His worries are annoying, but I shake them off and respond, "They're taking the same risk, and besides I've already talked to one of them, she seemed genuine." Nero shrugs after a moment and follows me over to the climbing wall. Making sure no careers are around, we slip behind the station, out of view of the other tributes, where Daedrya and Amerilia are waiting for us.

"The boy from Two," Amerilia breathes, "Didn't think you'd be so gung-ho to kill your sister."

"We've had differences for a while now, she's no more my sister than your mother," Nero replies coolly, and Amerilia shrugs.

"So," Daedrya says, commencing the discussion, "If the four of us band together, the careers might not make it as long as they think."

"It's as good a plan as we've got," I admit, and Amerilia nods steadily. I can tell the only one who might need convincing is Nero.

"What if we kept our respective alliances, but both went after the careers," Nero suggest, "That way we won't be rushing them with a big group, but flanking their defenses instead."

"It's not like we can't do that as a unit," Amerilia says with a hint of scorn, "We'd still be at a disadvantage with all of four of us together, four on six? I'd say the odds wouldn't be in our favor, but we could still try."

"Whatever," Nero mumbles, "Just don't get me killed."

"It's settled then?" Daedrya asks, eyebrows raised.

"It's settled, the four of us are one now," I say, and with nods from everyone in the alliance, the fate of the careers has been sealed.

* * *

**Maple Starr- District Seven**

I'd make a safe bet, that if you were a tribute alongside me, you wouldn't know that I was part of these games. For most of training, I've been hiding, right in plain sight. I've been up in the rafters, concealing myself below stations and behind large platforms, completely absent from view. It's my strategy, seeing as no one will align with me.

Once Revolc joined the careers, I knew I couldn't trust him any longer. It may have angered Alfie and Rocky that I decided to suspend any advice from them, but Rocky's been focused on Revolc since he's gotten here, and I can't blame him. They are brothers. So, instead of feebly attempting to wield swords or run a gauntlet I know I'll lose, I've been relying on stealth and camouflage to get me through these games. I've learned how to hide amongst nearly every environment at the camouflage station, and I know what harnesses and knots to tie to keep myself sturdy in high places. I have all the assets I need to get through these games unnoticed.

That's how it was until five minutes ago, when the girl from Eleven approached me. She had seen me climbing the rafters, spying on the other tributes and cozening their items. Apparently I have the qualities needed in Eleven, I could easily pick the crops high up in the trees. The conversation was brief though, but she told me if I needed an ally I could come talk to her.

I've been bouncing it back and forth in my mind, what will become of my experience in the arena if I accept Amber's help. I would no longer be able to hide in some remote location and wait for the other's to kill one another, but I would have to make sure my ally and I would be protected at all times. It would be burdensome and weighty, the arena would become more onerous that expected. However, despite all of that, I find myself walking towards the fire-building station, where Amber is trying to learn how to keep herself warm.

"You've got a deal," I say briefly, startling Amber a bit and causing her to turn around rather fast.

"You mean it?" She asks, eyes lit up brightly.

"Sure I do," I say, "I don't want to do this alone." There's truth to my words. No matter how much I believed I could coast throughout this by simply hiding, I think I know deep down I would have eventually been discovered and easily killed. I don't want to die like that, begging for my life in some distant location. If I don't go back home, if I die in the arena alongside twenty-two others, I want to do it fighting alongside a friend, and Amber has given me that opportunity.

"Then we're partners," Amber says with a smile.

"Consider us friends," I say warmly, and Amber returns to bright gesture. Her warmth and appearance remind me so much of Johanna that it's hard not to hurt. My thoughts go back to home, where Benny, Johanna, and Vel are all safe with my mother and father. They need me to be strong, to put forth some sort of effort to come back home to them. If I didn't do anything but hide, and I managed to win, it wouldn't be deserving, I'd be known as a coward among victors, and it wouldn't bring my family pride or joy.

"Friends," Amber determines, and she calls me over to the station, showing me how to build a fire. I try to match her display, and the instructor gives me pointers on how to make a proper fire stay lit and create enough heat to keep you warm. I hope we won't need a fire though, because I'm not all that great at building them. Amber is pretty good though, another perk to forming an alliance. Sometimes, when you can't do something, someone else is alright at it, and it makes up for the things you can't do alone. I thought I could waltz right through these games without lifting a finger, but I know that's not the case. I've got to try to get back home, and thanks to Amber, I might get that opportunity.

* * *

**Tatyana Gibbs- District Escort- District One**

I can hear that positively pestering alarm blare, letting me know all the little brats will be coming back to their rooms soon. Today's been painfully long, and I quickly rummage through my handbag to find another pill before this room is once again inhabited by that boy and his whore. She thought she could get away, well guess what? The capitol got her right as she slunk into the shadows of District One, and now she's here. She probably deserves it, the skimpy little thing that she is. I can't stand kids, I really can't, they just think they're so deserving and everything should be handed to them. Well now they've all been given an all-expenses paid trip to the capitol, they should be happy!

Finding the bottle, I unscrew the capitol and pour one too many pills into my violet glove. Cramming the extra ones back in the bottle, I quickly slip the white tablet into my mouth and take a sip of champagne. I know you're not supposed to mix alcohol and medicine, but I really don't care. I think I might get drunk tonight; it'd make up for the lousy lunch Caesar put on. But it's ok, because everyone loves Caesar. Screw him and all the filthy money he makes. I know I can't complain, being the escort for One has a lot of perks, but I could do his job, anyone could, all you do is just ask a bunch of brats how they feel.

Interrupting my thoughts, Avery and Allure pop into the room at the same time, ruining my meditation. I wasn't really meditating, but they don't know that.

"Hey Tatyana, how was your afternoon?" Avery asks, flashing his white teeth. He's only known me for a few days, but he acts like we're the best of friends. Oh surprise, he's not wearing a shirt. Allure clings to his muscles, like some delusional kitten.

"Oh I had lunch with the other escorts, then I came back and chatted with Sapphire and Summer for a bit. Then the two of them and Cicero went off to the victor's lounge for a meeting, so now I think I'll get drunk," I say, recounting my day.

"Oh fun," Allure comments, giving her flowing blonde hair a twirl with her fingers.

"The funnest," I drone, growing bored by their presence. I've already done my job, so now I just have to wait out the duration of the games. Sure I love them, they're always quite a spectacle, but I get a different sense of satisfaction than the other escorts. They just think it's a sport, some sort of great game that calls for parties and feasting. It does call for all of that, but I love the Hunger Games for the actual design. Make twenty-four district born children fight to the death to remind the outliers of why they remain subservient, it's beautiful.

Avery and Allure run off, probably to go change into their training clothes. Crossing over to the bar, I pour myself a vodka and tonic, waiting for the carbonation to fizzle out of the additive. Taking a sip, I commend myself on the drink, and follow that one up with three more. Quickly, I'm rather inebriated and decide to kick off my heels and take a seat on the couch. The black leather feels marvelous on my barren feet, and I curl up in a ball and flick on the television, watching whatever program the capitol has picked out. I don't comprehend most of what's going on with the show, and soon slip into a deep sleep.

When I wake up, it's about an hour until dinner, and I can tell the victors aren't back yet. My slumber knocked off most of the stupor I was in, but I'm still a bit bibulous. I head back to the bar, hoping to replenish my alcohol count when I hear a faint noise upstairs. It sounds like it's coming from Avery's room, and I don't know what the boy is up to. Climbing the wooden stairs, not paying attention to the avoxes that await commands at the top, I sidestep over the large round door that marks Avery's room. I can hear faint moans, a woman's voice. Suddenly, the light bulb manages to click on in my foggy head, and knowing the code to follow through with, I heave open the door.

"Oh my God!" Allure shouts, quickly dismounting the boy. Avery sheepishly grins up at me, completely naked. Allure covers up her body, but Avery couldn't care less. I don't say much at first, but looking back and forth between the two of them, I know there's not much I can do.

"Put on some damn clothes," I spit, "Dinner's in an hour, please come down a bit more presentable than you are at the moment. I don't know if this has ever happened, but I'm sure Cicero will know the proper course of action." I pick his name because he's the most frightening of the mentors for One, and I hope horrid little images dance in their head. Turning on my bare feet, I slam the door shut, not caring what they choose to do now, knowing the victors will know exactly what to do with them.

Did I mention that I hate children?

* * *

**Again, my apologies for the time it took to get this out. Updates will once again be frequent, now that I have all the time in the world on my hands. So, a lot happened this chapter! Auric convinced Omri and Caramen to join his cause, how will their alliance pan out? The flirtatious Sasha, rebel Aden, and scrappy Loot are now one, and the anti-career alliances have aligned. Plus, Maple found an ally in Amber, and put her previous plans to rest. However, the most shocking of all…what will become of Avery and Allure and how will Tatyana handle the situation? So much is going on now, so be sure to R&R! On to the Final Day of Training…this is getting intense!**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


	21. Masters of Destiny

**A/N: We have reached the final day of training, and most of the alliances have been forged. However, as we approach the Private Training Sessions, there are still some tributes that have yet to make friends or even be featured, but trust me, they will get some spotlight. Thanks for all the reviews, keep them coming, this is really turning out to be bigger than I thought! Also, keep in mind that points for the sponsor shop are being tallied, so do your best to get as many as you can before the games begin! So here it is…The third and Final Day of Training.**

* * *

**Icarus Cotton- District Twelve**

Everything is wrong. This isn't how it was supposed to be. I had prepared for this, I knew I could do this, but now, everything seems so wrong. I never got my chance, the chance I was supposed to have. I wouldn't have blacklisted Sasha and the help from our mentor if I had known the careers would reject me. They seemed to be so content with their roster of six, that they didn't even give me a thought. It had only felt like minutes into the first day when Revolc joined their ranks, and now, here I am, on the last day, without an ally in the world.

What will Ecclesiastes and Hera think when they see me? Cowering in fear and unsure of my fate, nothing like the confident spirit I was back in Twelve. What will they say? I don't know anymore, I'm not sure if I can do this, it's just too much.

I don't eat, the thought of food repulses me, I've been binging since last night to prepare myself for my inevitable death. I feel like a husk of my former self, like my insides have hollowed out. The acidity in my stomach screams for nourishment, which I deny. I can't keep going on like this, day in and day out, quivering in the corner while others take my place on the shoulders of glory. I know they can tell, people aren't as dumb as they look. The sideways glances Sasha gives me irritate me, past the point of simple annoyance, but a deep, red, anger.

"What?" I ask sharply, causing her to drop the spoon she was using to scoop the flaky cereal into her mouth.

"God Icarus, don't scare me like that," she chastises, ignoring my question.

I don't say anything else, and she doesn't seem to care. Why would she? She's found her own set of allies. The boy from 8, Aden is his name, and that scrawny boy Loot from Six. Aden looks fit, and I'm sure Loot could easily sneak up behind you and sink a dagger into your throat before you even knew he was there. Good allies, strong allies, people I need. I don't think about asking her for help, I know she has her faculties tailored to what she wants. I'm not a part of her equation.

"I'm off," Sasha says brusquely, leaving me in the wake of her dust, treading water in a bottomless ocean. I can't help but wish for a moment that I hadn't volunteered; I put myself in this situation, not the capitol. I could have lived on, I could have prospered and built a legacy, but it looks like that won't happen.

I don't know what to feel, I guess it's expected that I put on something of a show for the capitol these next few days. We've already been here for three days, and time is beginning to melt together and fade away. I just want to get out of here, to shut out the demons swirling in my head. It's torture, absolute torture to know that you're going to die and there's nothing you can do about it. I had plans, big plans, to win this game and shower Twelve in glory. Looks like that won't be happening, but, maybe Sasha can.

I have hope for her, although she'll never know it. I hope that she can get out of here, despite the wicked nature of her flirtatious qualities. I know she's done wrong, I can tell she's not the innocent girl she advertises herself to be. There's something more to Sasha, something more that I can't quite determine, but I know it's enough to get her home.

I've been sitting here for a while, and it looks like our mentor is gone as well. Picking myself up, I decide to go to the training complex, and when I heave the colossal mahogany door open, the peacekeepers seem to be a bit surprised that I'm there. One of them takes me down, carefully following behind in case I break for it. I won't though; I'm not stupid, not like Jemima.

The image from that day is seared into my mind, forever there. She was stupid to think that she could get away with only a knife. Sure, District One isn't all that far away, but was she going to swim across that dam? No, she had no plan; she was just a desperate girl trying to get back home.

She's dead now, something I'll be in a matter of days.

I guess it doesn't matter; all she did was hasten her impending doom. Jemima wasn't going to win these games, and I guess she figured that out ahead of time. All these tributes, they cling onto hope, thinking it's enough to get them home. Hope is merely a spark, something that is supposed to put other factors, like ambition and tenacity, into motion. That's the problem with these other tributes, they think hope is enough. I know the difference between hope and power.

Entering the complex, I can see Sasha climbing the enormous wall, trying to scale the whole thing. The careers are sparring in the swordplay arena, using batting sticks instead of the deadly metal. The soft collision can be heard, sharp clinks of wood. It's a dance, that's all it is, the pair from Four are dancing with each other, parrying and weaving like virtuosos of the sport.

I don't know why, but I watch them, neglecting any form of training on my part. I watch them encircle one another, slashing and hacking with all their might. It seems tiring, but my mind reminds me it's something I did only a week ago, preparing to bring fortune to my family and District Twelve. Ecclesiastes and Hera surface in my mind once more, and I close my eyes, shaking my head softly. The motion calms me, and the faces of my family and friends having a lulling effect on my mind. Soon, I feel almost like I do when I slip into sleep, but I know I won't doze off here. I've just sort of given up, drowning myself in memories, waiting for the day to come.

* * *

**Maud Perrin- District Three**

Most people would think that I'm crazy, but I'm not, because although my plan looks like psychotic, it's not. I haven't spent any time working on physical skills; I won't need them, because I've got an entirely different plan up my sleeve.

Coming from three, I know a thing or two about building things, and what I'm going to build will hopefully send me back home. Water receptors. That's it, plain and simple, I've decided to build little pods that can store given amounts of water. Brushing my hair out of my face, I quickly run over my designs. This is nothing like the dolls I crafted back home, but it's along the same design. I know my grandmother would be proud if she could see what I was working on, but it's because of her that I'll even be able to go home.

The crimson ring I wear on my finger, the token my grandmother gave me before I came here, is filled with a small red powder called Nuclear Fire. I've tested it out on small water supplies throughout the building when no one is looking, and no matter the volume of the liquid, the same amount of Nuclear Fire contaminates the entire solution. It's breathtaking, but it means that I can easily destroy the arena's water supply within an hour, but first I have to conserve enough water for myself. That's why I'm building the water receptors.

Gleaning enough information from the knot-tying station and poisonous plants station, I know which leaves to use and what kind of stems are the best for tying. Hopefully I can get my hands on some rope, but in the most likely situation, I will have to strip leaves and use the stems for sealing my receptors. If I can put enough water to sustain myself for a few days in these receptors, I can contaminate the water and wipe the arena clear of sustainable drinking methods. That way, the tributes will dehydrate and quickly become walking targets, if they don't die from exposure. My grandmother's plan is brilliant, and I hope I'll be able to see her again because of it.

I'm working on perfecting the knot for my receptors when I'm approached by the girl from Six. I don't know what she wants, but I can't afford to have any baggage when I attempt my plan, she would just get in the way.

"Hey," she says, he cropped black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, "What'chya working on."

"None of your business," I snap vehemently, trying to shoo her away.

"Look," she pleads, "I just really need some help, and you look like you could as well."

I'm unable to stifle my laughter, "I need help?" I rhetorically cackle, "No, you need help. I can't afford to make an alliance with someone I know will have to die for me to go home, so I'm playing alone. I suggest you do the same."

"There's no reason to be…," she tries to reason with me but I cut her off quickly,

"To be what? A realist? Because that's what I am, so now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do," I spit, turning my back to her and resuming my work on the receptors. That's not like me, to be nasty to other people, but I had to do it. The poor girl will probably die early on because I refused to help her, but it was a chance I just couldn't afford to take. The girl from Six might be able to find another ally, right?

I don't turn back to see where she goes off to, I really don't want to know, because it'll just hurt more. I'm not a killer, and my grandmother knows that. It's why she gave me this ring, so I could do the unthinkable without raising a weapon.

"Thank you Grandmother, thank you so much," I whisper quietly to myself, knowing her gift might get me back home.

* * *

**Aston Jeffries- District Six**

Maud's rejection of me hurt, because it was my final gamble at getting someone to back me up. Going into the arena alone, I know I won't have any sponsors. My prowess in weaponry is next to nonexistent; all I know is how to fix cars and bikes. My hobby really doesn't provide me with a lot of options, unless there's a wrench somewhere in the arena, I won't be doing too much damage.

Sighing, I sit down on a bench while watching some tributes spar in the hand-to-hand combat ring. It's Aden, and my district partner Loot. Loot never really gave me a chance, but instead went off on his own before I could even ask him to help me. Loot has allies now, something I don't think I'll get the chance to enjoy. Left to my own whims, I find myself at the gauntlet, wondering if I can make it through this horrid design.

There's nothing better to do.

There are three tributes in front, each one trying to run the course. In front is Revolc, the blonde boy from Seven. He's attractive, and his hair swishes from side to side as he runs through the course. Jumping, dodging, and running his way through the grisly mechanism, he comes out perfectly on the other side. The girl behind him, Cassia is her name I think, performs with similar results, and I realize that my observations are only reflections of the training career districts pour into their youth.

It's not fair.

I wish I could have had some training, could've been prepared for this. I think of my friends and my family, people who are counting on me to come home to them.

The boy in front of me tries his luck; I think he's the one from Nine. He is smashed to the floor near the end, but he looks pleasantly surprised by his performance. Two other boys commend him; they are young, just like him. Then I realize, they're allies.

I don't know why it's become so hard for me to find allies here, but I guess it's because there's nothing connecting me to another tribute. I could've perhaps aligned myself with Loot, but his lone wolf personality quickly eschewed that possibility. It's not the fact that Loot didn't want to partner with me that upsets me, it's the fact that I don't care. I could really care less if Loot wants to align with me or not, because it's not like he would be able to do much. He's scrawny, unkempt, overly rat-like in his demeanor. I don't know if I would've been able to trust him.

Scanning the room, my eyes alight on no one in particular. There is nothing special to me or about me. We are generic, simple children forced to play a deadly game, and we crave victory. It's either that, or die nameless, not Aston, but the girl from District Six.

* * *

**Allure Shine- District One**

Things have been a damn whirlwind since I've arrived, and I can't seem to keep my head from spinning. Avery's oh so delectable lips got me more than I bargained for, and now our very own district escort is out to get us. Last night was hell, today's been hell, and overall I feel like hell. There's a ringing in my ears from the cuff Cassia gave me while sparring today, and I'm pretty sure she hates my guts. I mean really? You just met me girl.

Sitting down for lunch with Avery and Revolc, I feel a bit more comfortable than I would by the other three. I don't have a problem with Ula, but apparently the chick's got a deal with me. Rip just gives me the creeps, his yellowed and pointy teeth just scream murderer. So, it's not hard to argue that Avery's company is more enjoyable, especially with those dreamy purple eyes.

"I have something of an idea," Revolc says at once, startling me from my daydream about Avery and I, back in that bed, my legs wrapped around his hips while he…

"Allure, are you even listening?" Avery asks me suddenly, and apparently Revolc has been talking for quite some time.

"Oh sorry boys," I say with a twirl of my hair, "I just zoned out."

"Obviously," Revolc states, "So back to what I was saying. I just can't help but feel like Rip and Ula are up to something."

"You think we should make a pact between the three of us, to break off if things get weird?" Avery asks his friend, while I look back up to his eyes.

"Well Cassia is obviously there little puppet, I don't know, I just can't shake this vibe man," Revolc says and Avery nods in agreement. Avery's been pretty quiet today, unless he's directly talked to by someone like Revolc or I, but he's not prompting conversation by himself. I want to know what he's thinking about, what's making him this way.

"What do you think Allure?" Revolc asks me, while Avery stares off towards the back wall. Slurping up a few sips from my protein shake made at the lunch bar, I respond with a vague,

"Sounds good."

"That's it?" Revolc asks, a bit thrown off.

"Yeah, I think your plan is good," I say, with absolutely no idea of what his plan entails.

"Alright then," Revolc claps his hands together, but softly, to where the impact doesn't make a sound, "Looks like we have an alliance within an alliance." So that's what Revolc was planning, a safety net in case the other three members of our alliance went in their own direction. What he said felt true, that Rip and Ula have been acting strange. They're not communicating with the three of us as much, whispering near stations to one another excitedly and rapidly.

"Avery," I coo quietly.

"Huh?" He turns to me with glazed eyes. I put a hand on his arms, but he shrugs it off.

"I need to clear my head," he confesses bluntly, and rises from the table to head to the climbing wall, where I think he'll sit at the top for a while. Avery didn't seem to care that we got caught last night, but ever since this morning, when I came down to breakfast, he seemed a bit, hollow, that's the word. Maybe something was said to him before I came down to breakfast. Summer, Sapphire, Cicero, and Tatyana were all there, so they could have easily brought up the subject. We don't even know if Tatyana said anything yet, so maybe Avery's problems are a bit more personal?

Deciding to leave him be, I don't pursue him like I've done so far. I decide to do a bit of snooping, see if what Revolc thinks is true. I think I'm going to spend a bit of time with the most mysterious of our members, little Miss Ula.

* * *

**Ruci Nonabi- District Ten**

I've coped with the fact that this situation truly exists by now, and instead try to determine a way deeper in instead of out. The only way out of this situation is to beat the rest right? So that's what I've got to do.

Roger is over by the swordplay arena, watching a fight between Nero and the instructor. Nero's the best of them, he can take down that teacher in a minute. He's been doing that and the gauntlet all day, honing his near perfect skills. I don't have skills like that, instead I'm relying on what my mother taught me, how to forage and fend for myself. Our mentors may have recommended forming a district-bound alliance, but that's not my style.

I've been thinking about Reggie a lot, ever since I left my mama's house actually. His pearly smile, those dark chubby cheeks, born between two people who loved one another, not a violent struggle. I guess I could say I'm thankful though, I wouldn't have ever existed if my mother had never been raped, but is that turmoil I'm glad she experienced for my benefit? I don't know the answer to questions like those.

The silence in the room becomes haunting; the only noises are the staccato beats of wood clashing in the swordplay arena and the sickening thud the arrow creates as it lodges itself in the foamy target. The sounds of anger, malice, practice, and hope. These are the noises created by such emotion, carefully strung together by a mad harpist. I may want to go home as much as anything, but I'm sure that's how twenty-three other people in this room feel right about now.

I'm scared, dead scared, for the day of the games. I don't know what I feel standing on that podium, the tributes surrounding me. Will I run towards or from the cornucopia? Will I even survive the initial bloodbath? These thoughts cloud my mind, swarming in between memories and recollections to create new fears and thoughts entirely. My mind is a nervous wreck, playing out possible outcomes and my body starts to quiver. I'm so scared of what's to come, but I have to be strong, for Mama, for Reggie.

I'm shaking so badly that I drop the rope my hands were working, and the instructor gives me a quizzical look. I just want to scream at her to stop looking at me, to peel those dark orbs she has for eyes away from skin. I want to spit at her, claw and gnash my teeth and give her horrible nightmares too. But I can't, I'm just a forgettable girl from District 10, cast to play these deadly games.

I try to pick the rope back up, but grow angry with my maladroit hands. Storming away from the knot-tying section, I try my luck with the throwing knives. Anger, hot and intense, bubbles up inside. I am angry that I'm here, that I'll be forgotten, that I've been robbed of the opportunity to shape my fate.

There was once a book I read, my mother's friend Edna Opapke had leant it to her, but she never picked it up. It was called _East of Eden_, by a man called Steinbeck. In it, he described the luxury all of us have, how we are all born masters of our own destiny. I guess he didn't portend the destruction of life, the ruinous country that is Panem, the war and depression and consequence to follow. I guess both he and my mother's neighbor were stuck in grind, the kind of grind that blinds you, makes you think you've got something to live for and work for. This isn't what the world once was, now we play the Hunger Games, and our destiny isn't ours to shape.

"Ruci," Roger says, and I jump, unaware that he was next to me.

"God Roger, you nearly gave me a heart attack," I say, clasping my hand over my heart.

"I just thought you looked lonely, I wanted to know if anything was troubling you?" He asks, sincerity in his innocent tone.

"Is anything wrong with me?" I snap, angry at his question. "What's wrong with you? I'm going to die in a week, or sooner and you expect me to be fine with that. Why can't I marry a man and build a family, run a ranch and make a business? Why do I have to die when life has barely given me the opportunity to live?"

He is startled by my outburst, and so is half of the training complex. I let out an exhausted sigh and plop down on the bench. He can tell I want to be left alone, and as I watch him walk away, I realize the only ally I had in this game, is gone. I sit there for some time, past the end of training, and as the tributes file out the door, the woman from the knot-tying station rests a hand on my shoulder.

"Time to go," she says softly, her lips pursed as if she didn't want to say the wrong thing.

I look into her eyes, our gaze is fleeting, but for a moment I can see pity. She leads me out of the room, and down the hall. Training is over, and I am no more prepared than when I first got here.

* * *

**Well, that was super depressing. I wanted to dedicate this chapter to the tributes who hadn't really found an alliance yet, and I wanted to reveal the alliance within the careers. Will Icarus be able to come to terms with himself? What punishment awaits Avery and Allure? How will Revolc coordinate the alliance within the careers? What can Allure discover from Ula? Will Maud's plan pan out? Can Aston find an ally before it's too late? What will become of Roger and Ruci's district-bound alliance? Keep on reading and reviewing to find out. Up next we have the private training sessions and the scores, so be prepared for a LOOONG chapter.**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


	22. Where You Stand Among the Rest of Us

**A/N: So I began writing this chapter, thinking I was going to be able to write all the perspectives for the private training sessions but then realized how arduous that would become, so instead I'm going to be doing a last thoughts before the games chapter directly after the interviews that will feature all twenty-four tributes. For this chapter, the perspective of six tributes will be shown, so it's still a lot but not a crazy amount. We're getting closer and closer and those reviews keep on flowing in. Thanks everyone, keep it up and let's get to 150 before the Games! (I know that's a long shot) So here are…the Private Training Sessions!**

* * *

**Leo Ventras- District Three**

I can barely walk. I don't know why I thought I could come to the capitol in the condition that I was and hope to make a difference, because the wounds dealt to me by my mother and the strain training has put on my already battered muscles have combined into massive amounts of pain. The girl from Two just left, probably wowing the gamemakers with all her pretty little tricks and stunts. I've seen her in training, she can swing pretty hard. The confident smirk on her face when she returns tells me two things, she's done well and I'm next.

"Leo Ventras," the monotone voice of the trainer calls and I struggle to get to my feet. I make it look normal though, and the speed at which I rose sends hot sensations of pain up and down my spine and legs. I try my best to hide the involuntary grimace that paints across my face, but I think the trainer saw. Whatever, it's not like I'll be making much of a score anyway.

Once I'm inside the room, the gamemakers postpone their frivolity and set their drinks down to look at me. A striking woman who I determine to be the Head Gamemaker was already watching before I came in, setting herself apart from the merriment of the others. There is something in her eyes, the expression she wears and the way she looks out from the window instead of towards something in particular that makes me think there's some hidden emotion she must be feeling. She doesn't like this line of work.

Trying to hide any bruises and masking my limp with a painful stride, I decide I'll show them how deadly I can be with the axe. It's the only weapon I've got a true handle on, but I've never dealt with a double-sided one before. The second I touch it I can tell I've perked their interest; I'm willing to bet not many tributes go for this one.

"Leo Ventras," I say, holding the axe in one hand before making my way over to the black dummies. The way they are arranged tells me I'm going to do have to do some serious physical maneuvering, and I pray I'll be able to complete the routine. All I have to do is fight past the pain, no matter how bad it burns. If I do that, I can get a decent score and not become career-bait the second I set foot in the arena.

I can feel the bug-like eyes of the gamemakers burning into the back of my skull and it becomes clear that I have to make a move. Heaving the heavy axe over my shoulder, I'm amazed at how much heavier the weapon becomes with the addition of another blade. Putting the weapon into proper swinging position on my shoulder, I make sure the curve will come from the side. Putting all the remaining energy I have into this swing, I silently hope that I can bring the weapon back for some sort of theatrical display.

I still haven't begun, and the second I hear conversation pipe up from the gamemaker's box due to my negligence to perform I swing the weapon. It arcs across the air, coming down from shoulder and sinking into the shoulder of the first dummy. I have no trouble wrenching the weapon free in seconds, and I spin my body so the axe moves in the motion of a hurricane. I become a spinning blade, and the axe sinks itself into the stomach of the second dummy. Impressed that I actually brought the weapon back, I free it from the depths of the dummy and get ready to lodge the weapon into the face of the third and final dummy.

Then it happens, when I heave the weapon high above my head in preparation to bring it down, my back sears with pain and I drop the weapon. Doubling over, my chest is an inferno, and the wounds I have burst with a new layer of aching. I sink to my knees, trying to collect the rapid exhalations of breath that leave my system, but I'm already here so I might as well give out. Crumbling to the floor, I let the cool tile rest against my cheek, and with one last expulsion of breath I fade into blackness.

* * *

When I wake up, I'm lying in my bed in the hotel room. I don't know how I got here, and I wish I could know what the gamemaker's thought, if they laughed or if they cried. I'm going to go ahead and assume it was the former. The cool air in the room feels nice, and I lay back down in the bed trying to forget the horror-show that was my private training session. I'll be lucky if my score is higher than two. I don't expect it when Tesla walks in, so I sit up immediately, hoping he has nothing bad to tell me.

"How are you feeling?" The elderly victor asks, placing a wrinkled hand against my forehead. My forehead isn't hot and he gives me a warm smile, trying to placate my anxiety.

"What happened?" I ask, not remembering most of what happened after I prepared to execute the third dummy.

"You passed out," Tesla put it simply, "But not because you were exhausted, or due to nerves." He narrows his beady black eyes at me before asking, "How long were you abused for?"

I'm startled he knows, but then again he is from District Three, not much gets past people like him. I know I'm from there too, but it's different for me, I've never been the brainy type. My thoughts delay my answer for a few moments, so when I do decide to give him one, I say slowly,

"Too long."

"That's what I thought," Tesla says, methodically running his hands across my flat arms. He applies pressure to areas that aren't even bruised, but it still hurts. He can tell this is true by the way I twist my jaw, and he releases his hold.

"You're greatly weakened by this…setback," he murmurs, "It wouldn't seem fair for someone in your condition to take on the arena." His words kindle a spark of hope inside of me that perhaps I'll be able to go home, but then the thought comes to surface. Home is worse than here.

"Was my training score affected?" I ask with too much care in my voice.

"Undoubtedly," Tesla confirms, his fingers playing with the threads of the blanket that covers me.

"Perfect," I mutter.

"Yes," Tesla says, "It's not going to get any better from here." Those are his final words, and the man who I thought was coming to do something about my condition, leaves me sitting alone with one inevitable thought clouding my mind. There's no way I'm making it out alive.

* * *

**Ula Ermin- District Four**

As soon as Richard comes back, they call my name and he winks at me as we pass each other on the way in. Gross. I give my hair a shake and let it hang down completely, the sandy brown strands coming past my shoulder blades. My dark green eyes scan the available weapons and I decide that I'll use the throwing knives today, although I could easily do just as well with the shining silver trident that is hanging by the swords.

"Ula Ermin," I say, making direct eye contact with the woman I presume to be the Head Gamemaker. Her purple hair reminds me of Avery's eyes, and if that's any indication of personality, then I don't like this woman. How did Dory feel when she stood here, proclaiming her name to a host of diabolical schemers ready to kill her with the push of a button? How did Marlene feel? Did they know she would come home victorious that year? Did she know?

I've got about five or six knives on the table next to me, and one in my hand already. There are six targets, circle pads hung in various locations and differences all across the course. I take a deep breath, exhale, and lock my eyes right above the center of the target. Aiming right there, I quickly bring the knife over my shoulder and let it leave my fingers as soon as the arc crosses my face. The knife, sailing through the air, careens towards the intended location on the target. I don't wait until it hits.

I fire off another knife, and another. By the time I've thrown three the first one sinks into the target, that's how quick I am. I can hear someone clap, but he is quickly hushed by his cohort. Running my hands through the next few knives, I repeat the same method and before a minute has passed I've hit all six targets dead in the center. Light clapping emerges from the booth, and I give them a tiny smile before heading out of the room, knowing that was enough to satiate their scoreboards.

Richard is just beaming when I come back to the suite, and I give him a wink before pouring myself a glass of water. I've never seen him so happy, and inquire as to why he's nearly bouncing around.

"God Richard, people are going to think you've killed someone you're so happy," I frame the question into a statement, pretending I don't care. For some reason, the other careers pinned me as mysterious and alienated, so Richard and I have decided to run with that. Sipping my water, looking towards the window, I don't make eye contact with Richard as he replies.

"My score's going to be somewhere north of ten, I can feel it," he says, glowing like a puppy.

"I've never seen you this happy," I remark, taking another sip, "Tell me all about it." I give my sandy hair a flip and look at him.

"I hit the dummies so hard with my trident that they split in half," he brags, "They had to replace."

"Marvelous," I comment, not really wanting to hear all about it. Marlene and Aqua are sitting on the couch, fervently discussing with our stylists the ideas for the interviews. Deciding to join, I bring my glass with me and settle down on the couch next to Fantine, my stylist.

"It has to be blue," Metias, Richard's stylist, argues, "This is District Four for crying out loud."

"I never said it didn't have to be blue," Marlene scowls, shooting me a wink from the other side of the couch.

They're at it for quite some time before Richard decides to join us, face stuffed with food.

"Rip sweetheart," Marlene coos, "Could you bring the bottle of wine while you're still up."

"Sure thing master," Richard snaps and doubles back to the counter to grab the dark bottle Marlene requested. Dashell is sitting on the recliner, a plate of food resting on the arm of course. His chubby pink cheeks stand out against the white furniture, and the fat man smiles at me briefly before stuffing two or three shrimp in his mouth at once. A bit revolted, I turn away from him and watch Marlene converse with Metias and Fantine, while Aqua sits silent between it all. Watching Marlene, her cropped hair swishing back and forth and she tries to address both stylists, memories of District Four flood my mind.

Coral, Caspian, Mother, Father, Dory. All of them swirl together in my head; I have to go home for all of them. How would Coral react, losing two sisters to the games. It wouldn't be fair. But the Hunger Games isn't about being fair, the capitol isn't about being fair, President Snow doesn't play fair. Which is why I'm going to do everything in power to win, which means at some point down the road, the last person I want to annoy will become my enemy, Richard.

* * *

**Caramen Fliess- District Five**

I go in right after the girl from Four, and my heart is hammering in my chest. I have no clue what I'm going to do for the gamemakers, what if they hate me? My mind is racing with possible outcomes of this situation, how my painfully low score will bring shame to my mother, how I won't make it past the bloodbath in time for Uncle Romulus to help me out. I can see him, he's right there in booth, chatting with two other older men about something rather funny from the looks of it. Then his eyes settle on me and I can instantly see the melancholy creep up his face, embedding itself in his eyes and casting a pitiful look down at me.

I guess I can try using a sword? I have no idea what I'm doing in here. I've spent most of my time learning techniques, like knot-tying, fire-building, how to make a snare, how to identify what's safe to eat. But the private training sessions are all about physical prowess, which I have none of. I can feel their eyes, his eyes, on me as I lift the heavy metal weapon, barely able to keep it up. Turning to face them, I can already seen the disdain in their eyes, except for a few including Uncle Romulus and the purple-haired woman.

"Caramen Fliess," I state my name and proceed to make an attempt at using the sword. I try to hack into the dummy's chest, but the weight of the weapon forces the blade way downward and I end scraping its leg. Audible hoots of laughter rise from the gamemaker's box, and conversation picks up once more. I try again, but the swing completely misses and mirth spreads throughout the booth. I look up to Uncle Romulus, pleading for him to do something, but he doesn't bat an eye, he can't. He would look weak, sticking up for a tribute like me, and my heart sinks into my stomach when he shakes his head.

It's the ultimate sign of hopelessness, Uncle Romulus has seen what lack of talent I possess, and he's not willing to spend funds on me. It doesn't matter that I'm his nephew, I'm not his son. Uncle Romulus can't watch any longer as I feebly nick the dummy's knee and he rises up and briskly walks over to the purple-haired woman. Whispering something in her ear, he nods in confirmation and returns to his seat. The woman with the purple hair seems to sigh, and then taps the microphone resting on her ear.

"Thank you," she mutters, "You may go." That's it, I've been dismissed. Has anyone ever been dismissed before? If only mother could see her brother now, not lifting a finger to help me. It was Romulus who asked for my session to be ended, he couldn't bear to watch another second of my hapless maneuvers. I'm a fool, an outcast, I'll never win these games. I may have an alliance with Omri and Auric, but who am I kidding? It's not like we're strong with our numbers, if we bumped into one career it'd be three free kills. We've tried to get stronger, and Auric is a great motivator, but it's not enough. It'll never be enough, because we're young, we're weak, and we're going to die.

I don't look at Amerilia as the signal for her to go is given. She tries to look at my eyes, pick up some hint as to how I did but I keep my gaze steeled and walk right past her. I give Omri and Auric exasperated looks, trying to tell them I flopped, but they just give me reassuring smiles and act like everything is fine. Everything's not fine, what's wrong with them? Why can't they see what I see? I'm sure all three of us will get low scores, I'm sure of it. The only hope I had going into the arena was that if I survived the bloodbath Romulus would send me something, but now I don't know if that'll happen. Why would he invest in someone like me? Even if I am his sister's son.

I still don't know why he became a gamemaker; he's not malicious and bloodthirsty like most of them. But from the way she looked, neither is the purple-haired woman. The way she leaned over the banister, her superior expression and dismissal of everyone around her, together with the fact that Romulus spoke to her makes me think she's in charge. But if she's the one, the head of it all, then why would she be where she is?

These questions boggle my mind as I reach our suite, and I don't say two words to any stylists, mentors, or our escort. I just want to be alone, I want to think about my session and cry about how I don't have a chance. There's nothing I can do, faced by kids years older than me, bodies post-pubescent and toned to points. It's ridiculous that I thought even the mercy of Romulus could get me out of there, so what if he sent me a sword? I wouldn't know how to use it. The pillows and blankets surrounding me soon became soaked with the stains of my tears, and I don't come out until dinner, wishing the entire time things could just go back to the way they were.

* * *

**Maple Starr- District Seven**

I've been biding my time by reading the expressions of the tributes that have come back from the private sessions, witnessing mixtures of emotions. I've seen confidence, fear, doubt, promise, and hope. All of these I've seen, and now that Revolc's left, I'm next. I don't know what I'm going to do, if I'm going to sit and stare or if I can find some hidden talent to show them. I know how to hide, be stealthy, and swoop in from above. Those are things I can't show them, so what's someone with talents like mine supposed to do?

Revolc emerges, looking overall content with whatever he did in there. Is it me or has his aligning with the careers caused him to become more confident overall? As if this alliance has padded his chances at winning, which it probably has, but he's been glowing lately, and I can tell there's more than one trick up his sleeve. He is so easy to read. My name is called and I imitate the same pattern every other tribute has so far this morning. I walk along the black floor, making sure each step is carefully placed so I look confident when I arrive. The trainer ushers me into the room, his gloved hands barely nudging my shoulder. He closes the door behind me, and the sound resonates off of the high ceiling. The boom of the door lets the gamemakers know I have arrived.

"Maple Starr," I say, perhaps a little too soon. The one who immediately catches my eye is the woman with purple hair who leans over the banister, watching me intently. She must be in charge, because although the booth is filled with general merriment, each gamemaker gives her the occasional glance, each one mixed with obvious emotions. There is respect, admiration, fear, hatred, and envy. By saying my name, my routine has started, yet I've failed to think of anything to do. Then I see it, over by the east wall there's a rope, it's tied to the high beams to open the light fixture in case the bulbs need to be replaced. The rope runs up the ridges of the wall, and then once it hits the ceiling it splits off into attachments on various posts, ringing the room almost like a net.

That's not all though, my eyes scan the table and I catch sight of a slingshot, something I might be able to use. There are spiky pellets lying next to it that I notice as I approach the weapon, the point's deadly enough to cause death if lodged in the neck at high enough of a speed. Pocketing the pellets and grabbing the slingshot, I slip the weapon in my belt and run over to the rope. Grabbing the black cord with both hands, I embark on my mission to impress the gamemakers.

With my hands on the rope, I swing my feet around it and begin to shimmy up. This picks up their interest almost immediately, and the gamemakers that weren't paying any attention are now fixated on my movements. I reach the top of the rope in ten seconds, and swing over from there to grab onto its end, pulling myself up and resting on the miniscule space up top. I'm thankful for my tiny frame, because weighing near nothing is what allows me to do this. I test the rope that descends from my perch and realize that if I were to shimmy my way across it I could reach the high beams. Doing so, I reach my next perch in seconds and that's when I see the targets below. It's been about twenty seconds since I started climbing, so I quickly remove the slingshot from my belt and the pellets from pocket. I'm ready to really begin.

Aiming at the closest target, I release the spiked pellet and watch as it hits the dummy right in the forehead. I release a volley of pellets on the next few dummies, hitting them all in vital locations. If I were above a pack of careers like this with this weapon, they'd be dead in seconds. Taking out every single dummy, I allow myself to shimmy back down the rope and the event is over in under a minute.

"Very good, you may go," is all the purple-haired woman says and I am out of there in a heartbeat. I don't know if I did what they were looking for, perhaps it was too much? Too little? I don't know but my mind is racing as I go back to our suite, where Revolc and Rocky are chatting it up. Alfie's on the sofa with Verran and Deidre, our stylists. They're chatting about someone's party or something, and I'm instantly disgusted by the capitol talk. Their picayune lives bore me, it's all about parties and fashion and so many things that don't even matter. They don't have to worry about what they'll be eating for dinner, if there is dinner.

My head is pounding after the private session because I was over thinking the whole ordeal, and I intrude upon the trifling conversation to ask Verran for some medication. She happily fishes a tiny blue pill out of her bag and tells me to take it with water. I walk right past Rocky and Revolc; they've shut themselves off from the rest of us ever since Revolc joined the careers. I watched Rocky's games, that wasn't the approach he took, so his little brother being a career probably mesmerizes him.

"Maple darling," Verran calls from the couch, "Come over here and sit. The scores will be up by the hour and Deidre brought _jollof _ with him, it's delicious." I comply to my stylists wishes and sit next to her, and she smiles widely, her beaming white teeth hurting my eyes.

"I'm sure you did fine sweetheart, there's nothing to worry about," Verran tries to mollify me, but I'm still nervous. What I did was such a brazen thing to do, I'm sure no one else even attempted it. I wonder if Amber's gone by now, and if so, what did she do? I'm thinking about so many things that I don't even notice Deidre offer me the red rice dish he brought, so it takes Verran's sharp voice to draw me from my thoughts.

"Maple darling you should say something when people talk to you," she chastises; I don't say anything to her but thank Deidre for the sample of his rice dish. It's pretty good, and Verran calls for champagne while Rocky and Revolc finally join us.

"They're on Ten, so the scores will definitely be up before the next hour," Rocky says to no one in particular, and I don't really care what he has to say. His job is to mentor both of us, and I know his brother is here but he could do a better job at teaching _us. _Verran makes the response comment once more but I pretend not to hear here, smiling on the inside because I know it's what she doesn't want me to do. My thoughts don't stray from Rocky though, and how I'm going to show him how wrong he was to ignore me once these games begin.

* * *

**Roger Shimhill- District Ten**

There's only six of us still sitting in this lowly lit hallway, and as the girl from Nine returns, I realize it's time for me to get going. I haven't excelled at training, but I haven't done horribly. I guess I'm just a run of the mill tribute, which disappoints me, because those kind don't usually return home.

Home is all of can think of. My mother, father, siblings, and my dog. Life on the ranch was plainly simple, and we'd never been affected by the Hunger Games before so when I was reaped everything seemed to slow down. It was like your entire life up until that point was being erased, and all you can do is sit and watch. Pain shoots into my heart at night, when I think about how I probably won't see home or my family again. I know they cling onto bits of hope that I will return, but I'm actually hoping they've come to terms with it, because I don't see how I'm going to get out of this mess.

Ruci won't say anything about our alliance, if it exists. I keep trying to drop vague insinuations towards our partnership, which our mentors recommended. I'm hoping I can key her in before the games start, otherwise I'll be left alone, which will make me an easy target.

Entering the room, I simply announce my name and try to impress the gamemakers with my skills with a knife, but some of my tosses aren't too accurate. What I spent so much time worrying about is over in a minute, and I'm dismissed after the last knife leaves my hand. I know I'll score low, one of the knives missed and only one was a fatal toss. My hands were trembling so bad, I just want to go home.

I walk out of the room and the trainer calls Ruci who makes eye contact with me. I can feel the tears stinging my ears and just by watching me she gets the message, I didn't do well. She gives me a reassuring smile, but I'm not reassured and step out of the dark hallway back to our suite, so I can watch my failure put up in lights.

* * *

**Sasha Galem- District Twelve**

Coming out of my private session I'm pretty confident, being the last tribute to go I quickly make my way back to the suite because I know the scores will be posted in minutes. Reaching the elevator, I push the button for the penthouse and the machine seems to crawl up there. I know they won't broadcast it until I'm confirmed in the room, but I just want to know not just how I did, but how we all stack up.

Breezing into the room, I plop down on the sofa and give Icarus a sour look. He's been acting so pathetic lately, trying to get sympathy from tributes like me, who have actually worked hard the past few days. I don't think I did phenomenal, but I know I did well enough to where I won't be discarded without a chance. I can't say the same for Icarus though, who looks completely downcast despite his prowess with weapons.

Esmeralda is chatting in a low voice with Cream and Wisp, our stylists.

"Effie's fine," she says, a bit louder now that I'm here, "She's turning four this weekend so that'll be exciting, I think we'll take her to the coliseum and get private box seats for the games screening. Won't that be exciting?"

"Oh how I'd love to have a private box," Cream says with adoration, her voice laced with obsequiousness. I can tell Esmeralda loves the affection of the other two, and Wisp opens his mouth to say something when the capitol seal blazons itself on the screen of the television. A man with shining blue hair pulled tightly into a ponytail is on the screen, and other than that his features are normal.

"Ladies and Gentleman," he begins, "It pleasures me to be hosting this event for the second year in a row now, I'm Caesar Flickerman and it's time for the private training scores. Twenty-four tributes, each valiant and strong, have had their mettle tested in front of the gamemakers, now it's time to see how they fare against one another. Who will soar to new heights, and who will hit rock bottom? Let's find out with this year's presentation of the scores."

Caesar talks smoothly, and I like how he isn't too tainted by the dyes and bizarre fashions of the capitol. He wears a crisp blue suit to match his hair and he begins to read off the first name while all of us scoot forward on our seats, except for Icarus that is.

"From District One, Avery Reid, with a score of…8."

"From District One, Allure Shine, with a score of…7." He reads off Allure's name like Jemima never existed, and for a moment a pang of hurt soars up my chest. Her existence can be chalked down to the girl who ran away, the coward who was shot for misconduct. It's really sad actually, but I snap my head back to the television to hear Caesar read off the next name.

"From District Two, Nero Lepidus, with a score of…11." There are murmurs amongst our escort and the stylists.

"From District Two, Cassia Lepidus, with a score of…8."

"From District Three, Leo Ventras, with a score of…4." The first low score sends ripples through me as Leo's face lights up the screen. What if I got a score like that? I can't possibly think how Leo feels right now, but I don't have time to worry for other tributes, I'm not like that.

"From District Three, Maud Perrin, with a score of…3." Another low score, it makes me nervous, but I hold my head up and swish my ponytail back and forth along with my head to clear my mind.

"From District Four, Richard Crevan, with a score of…11." Rip and Nero matched one another, which startles me. Good thing Nero isn't with them, or we'd be in serious trouble.

"From District Four, Ula Ermin, with a score of…9." Ula's pretty face comes on screen and her sandy brown hair shines in the video as her face pans by. That's a high score for a girl, and it makes me a bit envious.

"From District Five, Caramen Fliess, with a score of…3." Back to the low scores.

"From District Five, Amerilia Hesterfield, with a score of…8."

"From District Six, Loot Lewis, with a score of…6." The first of my allies is shown, and Loot's score is right in the middle, which is perfect. We don't want to draw too much attention to our little group of thieves, so although I hope my score isn't bad, I don't want it to stand out."

"From District Six, Aston Jeffries, with a score of…5."

"From District Seven, Revolc Undercity, with a score of…9."

"From District Seven, Maple Starr, with a score off…Ladies and Gentleman, we have a 12." I am simply stunned, that girl, the little one who disappears during training, she earned a 12? Targets have instantly been drawn all over by the careers, who were passed up by some tiny girl. The thought amuses me, and I turn back to the television to learn the rest of the scores. If Esmeralda and the others were excited before, they get really thrilled by the twelve, their whispers rising to conversation.

"From District Eight, Aden Hanran, with a score of…8." Aden's score is good, very good, and it's right along the line where we want to fall. Hopefully I'll get something like a 7 so I won't be the lowest scorer in the group.

"From District Eight, Daedrya Redwyne, with a score of 8."

"From District Nine, Omri Grain, with a score of…4."

"From District Nine, Cynthia Pratt, with a score of…7."

"From District Ten, Roger Shimhill, with a score of…2."

"From District Ten, Ruci Nonabi, with a score of…4."

"From District Eleven, Auric Zola, with a score of…5."

"From District Eleven, Amber Liefson, with a score of…7."

Here we go.

"From District Twelve, Icarus Cotton, with a score of…0." Esmeralda drops her champagne glass and the shards go everywhere. Cream and Wisp instantly look at Icarus, who does nothing in response. Caesar announces my score as 7, and I smile to myself before turning to watch this wonderful little scene unfold.

"Don't tell me you went in there and did absolutely nothing," Esmeralda threatens, but Icarus lifts his somber eyes at her.

"Just about," he whispers and rises, turning to his room.

"Get back here!" Esmeralda screams, "I'm not finished with you!" But Icarus is finished with her, and as he trudges off to his room, I realize what he's done. He's given up.

* * *

**Wow. So, I know I said this would have lots of POVs and be very long but I wanted to save the 24-perspective chapter for the pre-games chapter and I wanted to be able to reuse the tributes for the interviews and not for this. I think everyone has had a perspective now, so yay! Furthermore, there are only, 3 more chapters until we reach the games, so the sponsor shop will open soon and the bloodbath will begin. Thanks for all the support, keep up all that reading and reviewing, you're making me feel awesome!**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


	23. A Round of Applause- Part One

**A/N: I've been super busy, so please don't feel upset that these updates aren't fantastically frequent. We all have real lives, and what with spending time with friends, touring colleges, going places and doing things I just haven't had time to write. But here I am now, and we are so close to the games I'm sure we're all a bit overexcited. So, from here on out there are three chapters left before the games, this one included. Hopefully we will get there soon! Thanks for all the support and reading and reviewing, let's get to that 150 review mark before the games begin!**

* * *

**Loot Lewis- District Six**

Tiger is all over the place, his electric lime green hair radiating from the gleams cast by the high sky lights. A flurry of activity, his tall and thin frame is dashing to and fro amidst the group of stylists discussing preparation techniques and facial adjustments.

"Creslin!" Tiger shouts, "Get over here and get to work, the interviews are tonight! Tonight! We don't have all day!" My escort has taken it upon himself to see to every fine detail and make sure District Six looks spectacular tonight. The faux hawk that rests on his otherwise shaved head bobs up and down as his struts around, like a flamboyant ostrich. Creslin darts over, his thinly framed glasses nearly falling off the bridge of his nose.

"You called?" My stylists ask my escort, who looks dumbfounded.

"Of course I called! You're the stylist! For crying out loud do I need to do it myself?" Tiger shouts, startling Creslin and causing the other stylists in my station to look up at the enraged escort. Taking a deep breath, Tiger removes a bottle of spray from his pocket and squirts a few droplets in his mouth. Breathing quickly on his hand I guess the liquid is some sort of breath enhancement and with a curt nod Tiger shuts the bottle up and stuffs back in the pocket of his custom made lime green pants. The man looks like a walking highlighter.

"I'm sorry Creslin, it's just you know how I get when this time rolls around. It's been years since we've brought one home and I just want to get us on the map again, so do what you need to do, I'll be waiting back at the suite for the interviews to begin," Tiger apologizes and quickly leaves the room, not giving Creslin a chance to say anything in return. When the sliding doors close back into place, it seems as if the tension has evaporated, and Creslin turns to me with a large white smile.

"I'm afraid he's always been like that," my stylist says, "Just a bit controlling when it comes to presentation. But that's what I'm here for, and my team of course." Creslin motions to the other two stylists with a nod of his head, Aren and Knightly. My stylist team is all males, which is a bit weird, but I guess that's how it's going to be. Creslin instructs me to lay back on the white table I had been sitting up on, and after removing my shirt the stylists get to work.

"My oh my oh my," Aren says with a cluck of his tongue, "We are just as filthy as before Mr. Lewis, did you get this way on purpose?"

I don't say anything, the stylists never let me. Before the first one is finished talking the next one picks up with some new topic or an extension of the old one. They ask me questions, but don't stop for answers. Digging files underneath my nails, Aren gets to work sawing out the dirt and grime from my previous days of training. The coarse material of the file feels rough under my skin, but Aren doesn't go slow or ask me if it hurts, he just cleans vigorously while discussing a myriad of topics with the other two.

A feel a jerky tug on my hair and realize that someone must be brushing it out. I don't ask what they're doing to me but just let them override my body and take control. They lift legs and arms, cleaning every possible nook and cranny. I can feel something being lathered in my hair and rinsed out, over and over again. My nails are cleaned, trimmed, scraped and shined. My face is scrubbed, dyed, wiped, dyed, wiped again.

"The lighting is low at the interviews," Creslin chirps, "His current skin coloring won't make him glow under those lights. We need something darker."

"I'm fine with the way it is," I manage to speak up.

"That's fine, but honestly, you need to go darker about two tones. It won't be much, just enough to give you that glowing effect the capitol loves," Knightly instructs, basically telling me I have no choice. I guess they know what they're doing; they are the ones who have the job to do. And besides, there's a good chance I'll be dead soon anyway so what does it matter if I look a little weird?

I feel another brush hit my face and I can tell by the strokes that Aren and Creslin are applying skin dye. The process takes forever and after the dye is applied some weird heat machine passes over my body, the sensation warm and funny. Slamming me back down on the table after my skin has been altered, Creslin plucks my eyebrows and sculpts my eyelashes to his liking. My lips are smoothed with some sort of butter and light amounts of make-up are added to my faces to apparently give me that glowing effect Creslin keeps blabbing about. That's all these three seem to care about, is whether or not I glow.

"So did anyone hear about Dolora's son? Apparently he's rather sick," Creslin gossips, earning the immediate attention of Aren and Knightly while they scrape grime off my feet and clip the hairs on my legs.

"That's no good," Aren comments, "With all the responsibilities she has she can't afford to take care of a sick son."

"I heard she hired some help," Knightly says, "First single Head Gamemaker I think we've ever had."

"Her husband died Knightly," Creslin reminds him while massaging the knots out of my neck. The process is painful but apparently I have to look limber and my posture has to be perfect for the interview. I didn't realize this process would take so long, but memories of my initial cleaning come back to me and I remember how important my appearance is to sponsors, which is something I desperately need.

"That still makes her single, does it not?" Knightly asks, removing a strip of hot wax from my leg, ripping off a patch of hair with it.

I grimace and Knightly asks, "Did that hurt?"

"A bit," I manage to mumble.

"Well don't think about it too hard, because there's plenty more of that coming," Knightly assures me, I think trying to sound nice. Layering the hot wax on my legs is warm and sensational, but the ripping is painful and draws me from my thoughts like someone has thrown my legs in fire. Each time I make a sign of pain on my face, but nothing more is said of the arduous trial they're putting me through.

It's been hours, I know it. Tiger walks in at some point to check on things but Creslin shoos him out the door almost immediately. After what's seemed like forever, the stylists finally announce I'm completely ready to go and Creslin props me up on the edge of the table.

"That wasn't so bad was it?" He asks with a cheery smile, his gigantic white teeth glistening in my face.

I don't answer him, but he's not looking for one. He flips over a standing mirror, and allows me to look at myself in full. The hair is gone from everywhere on my body except my head. My actual hair has been trimmed and cut to a wavy design. My skin is a lot darker, almost tan, and I like looking healthy for once. I am still scrawny and built like the street rat I was, but there's something different about me. I glow.

"Didn't I say you would glow? Tiger doesn't know it but these things take time, impatience will get you nowhere!" Creslin says, a bit too loudly. There's something about his words that make sense though, and I think it's the most intelligent thing I've heard all day.

"Thank you," I blurt out, not looking at Creslin but with my eyes still fixated on my image in the mirror.

"Oh," Creslin says, obviously not used to being thanked, "You're welcome." The polite exchange seems foreign to him, and he waves off the cordiality with a dismissive hand. Nearly dragging me off the edge of the table he throws me into a fitting room and stuffs a bundle of clothes in my hand, all iron pressed and laid out in a transparent sheet.

"This is what you're wearing. The interviews are about to begin so we need in this thing pronto, let me see you when you're done," Creslin instructs and speeds off to clean his studio. I am left in the fitting room, staring down at the package in my hand.

"Croft and Banks," I read the tag of the suit aloud, looking down at the expensive material in my hands. I slip the pricy piece out of the bag, holding up the magnificent silver suit. It's amazing, the most remarkable thing I'll probably ever wear. A powder blue dress shirt with silver-lined buttons and a crisp silver jacket to go over it. Matching silver slacks accompany an equally congruous pair of dress shoes and I slip the ensemble on in no time.

"Almost done in there?" Creslin asks with a shout and I step out of the fitting room as if on command.

"Mr. Lewis," Creslin says, drawing his breath, "I think you're ready for an interview."

* * *

**Daedrya Redwyne- District Eight**

I've been fawned over and brushed, straightened, cleansed, rinsed, washed, dyed, scrubbed and just about everything else for the last few hours that getting up to slip into my dress is like a breath of fresh air. It's not that I hated the treatment; I just don't like lying down and not being able to move a muscle for hours on end. My stylists are nice enough though, and now that Kazzine and Marvel have finished the basic work, Porsche can get me fitted.

"I was thinking something green when I walked into the fashion strip this morning," her voice says from behind the wardrobe rack. "I stopped in Lady Taylor's and looked around for a bit but then decided that I could only settle for a Vartarienne dress. Did you know them? I heard they're one of the wealthiest families in District Eight. They make their money all the way here in the capitol and have it deposited into the bank and just roll around in it back in Eight. Did you know them?"

After hearing her question for a second time, I speak up, "No, I didn't know the Vartariennes, but my sister does. At least remotely." It was somewhat true, Khalyssa had met them when she won her games, and they showered her with the most lavish dresses money could buy. I have some too, but I don't where them and I've never met a Vartarienne face to face. What my stylist says is true though; they're extremely rich and have several department stores all over the capitol. The only reason they stay in Eight is to be in the heart of the textile region.

I guess you could even call Eight the fashion district, it's where the money is.

My fiery red hair has been straightened to perfection, and Porsche smiles a wide gleam as she views me up and down.

"I thought Kazzine would do a good job with your hair, you look ravishing darling," Porsche compliments, making me blush a little.

"Oh no need to feel embarrassed darling, just embrace your inner beauty. It's what every woman should do," she says instructionally, as if she's teaching me something. I don't know if I'll be around much longer to embrace my inner beauty but I'm not going down without a fight.

Porsche unravels a sumptuous emerald dress from the wardrobe rack, holding it high for me to see. The mermaid gown wraps around my hips and snakes its way down to the floor. The emerald shade will go perfectly with my matching eyes and blend with the stunning red of my hair. It's the perfect dress, and Porsche can see my smile as she hands it to me to try on.

The dress is strapless, hugging the area slightly above my breasts tightly and showing off my lithe yet muscular body. My physique compliments the dress and Porsche gasps nearly every time I take a step in it.

"Marvelous darling, simply marvelous," Porsche states, holding her long painted hands up against her cheeks. Her beautifully painted nails grace the edges of her short bubblegum hair and she smacks her pink lips in approval.

"Perfect, just perfect. We need to get you to the games department immediately, the interviews are sure to begin soon," Porsche says, almost like a command and speeds off to find Magenta. My elderly district escort is probably busy attending to sponsors and making sure all of our ducks are in a row before the games begin. Magenta may be ancient, but she's meticulous and tenacious, not overwhelming and flamboyant like many of these haughty escorts. I say the one for Six today, running around all dressed up in lime green, completely flustered. Magenta doesn't worry; she doesn't have to, because she always seems to know what's going on before it happens.

I'm left alone in the room, and as I stand there I can't help but feel taken aback by the stranger staring at me in the mirror. Is this who I am? Is this really me? Only four days ago I worked at the training center, helping children try and face an obstacle I hoped they would never have to overcome. I wore training shorts, sports bras, running shoes. Now, looking in this mirror, the girl looking back at me with the voluminous hair and sparkling dress, who is she? Is this what the games do? Do they change you before you die?

I'm cut off by Magenta entering the room, Porsche hot on her heels.

"You look nice," Magenta says curtly, not one for detail.

"Nice? That's all you have to say Magenta? She looks nice?" Porsche sounds a bit flabbergasted.

"I'm not one to hand out blandishments Porsche, you know that. I'm not one for small talk either. Now come along dearie," Magenta says to me, "It's time to wow the nation."

I'm intimidated by her words, do I really have what it takes to impress all of Panem is just three minutes? I know I can get sponsors through blood; Khalyssa has so much influence as a victor. But, what about me? Will I be able to get people to like me for who I am, or for who my sister is?

Dwarfed by her large shadow, I try to push Khalyssa out of my mind. I don't want to think about her, I don't want to have her on my mind as I try to score some points with Panem. But I can't stop thinking about the incident that morning, when Khalyssa attacked mom. It was so sudden, so unexpected and unlike her. She's experienced trauma, but that's been limited to cries in the night and self-mutilation, but never has she ever turned one her own family. Aggression seeps through Khalyssa's every pore, but not like the kind she exhibited towards my mother. Our mother, she's our mother, Khalyssa attacked our own mother.

There she is, the one person I don't want to see right now, standing next to Celeste as Magenta walks with me to the elevator.

"You look beautiful," Khalyssa says, running up to me and giving me a quick hug. Tears begin to well up in her eyes, and I can see the emotional pain that is hiding behind her fake smile. Her little sister is about to get swallowed up by the worst stage in Panem, and there's nothing she can do but watch. She's done this before, but she did it alone, at least I have her with me.

But is having her more of a curse than it is a blessing? Will she attack me too? What if I win, will I become like her? Freaking out every ten minutes and crying myself to sleep every night. Will vivid nightmares walk in the wake of my dreams and torture me as I sleep? Is winning better than losing?

Khalyssa rubs a hand on my shoulder, although I'm taller than her traditionally, the extra height given to me from the heels I'm wearing make the act of kindness even more awkward. She doesn't know what to do, her baby sister is part of the Hunger Games and she just can't bring herself to realize she might die.

I might die.

It's something I hadn't really registered yet, dying in the games. Leaving my team behind me, Khalyssa, Magenta, Celeste, Porsche, I file into line behind Aden, who looks dashing with his red hair slicked back and a suit the same color of my dress on.

"Ready?" He says to me, trying to make small talk.

"How can you be so calm?" I ask him, wondering why he isn't trembling like most of these tributes. But oddly enough, I'm not trembling either.

"It's just an interview, just answer the questions and you'll be fine," Aden says, flashing me a trademark toothy smile. There's something attractive in the way he glances at me, looking at me move in my tight dress. But he's married, the kid is married, he's got kids and this is no time to be developing boy crushes. But Khalyssa did, she carried her crush with her until the final stage of the game, and then she killed him.

Kevlar Kollins had been his name, her district partner. He was cute, built, and ready to win. The pair fought off careers and muttations, making it all the way to the final three. They kissed a lot, formed some sort of onscreen relationship that the capitol ate up and adored. Khalyssa became a hit, and when Kevlar killed the boy from One, sealing them as the final two, he didn't even have a moment to think before Khalyssa buried a knife in his throat.

Could I do that to Aden?

No.

Is there any other way to win?

I don't know, I have my alliance with me, so I'll be fine. Thoughts of Aden and Khalyssa still burn in my mind as the lights flash and Avery Reid steps out on stage. The interviews have begun.

* * *

**Avery Reid- District One**

The fixtures dip and the floodlights bathe me in a circle of light. The spotlight is on me, and although I've decided to put a shirt on for this occasion, the citizens of the capitol are roaring with shouts of excitement. It feels fantastic to be the first one on stage, and I give my platinum blonde hair a swoosh and smile at a woman in the front row, causing the already deafening screams to become an earsplitting cacophony.

I fix my purple eyes on the man of the hour, Caesar Flickerman, and shoot him a smile as well. He pretends to faint, and plays up my gig. I'm going to use my sheer beauty to get me through these games. Before I sit down, I lift up my dress shirt to expose my rock solid abs, earning the admiration of every spectator in the crowd. Before I can even sit down, this place is on its feet and I can see the dazzling lights swimming in the eyes of every single capitolite.

"Ladies and Gentleman Avery Reid of District One!" Caesar booms, followed by an increase in the uproar. It's so loud in here I can barely think, but I know all these little acts will heap on the sponsors. Of which I already have tons.

With a downward motion of his hand, Caesar quiets the crowd and everyone focuses their attention on him and I. He offers me a seat on the red velvet chair left out for me and he takes his seat in his own. An award winning smile on his face, I match his with mine and the crowd goes absolutely silent as the host launches into the first question.

"So Avery," he begins, voice lathered with enthusiasm, "There was a lot of negative reception at your reaping, people were so upset that you had to go. How did that make you feel?"

"Well Caesar, before we begin, I just want to say thank you to my mother, she's always been there for me and I never stop thinking about her," I lie, completely ignoring his question and earning a series of sympathetic noises from the crowd.

"That's so sweet, so true," Caesar comments, his gaze shifting between the crowd and I, "So tell me, what will you be thinking on the day of the Games, when everything begins?"

"I'll be thinking about getting home, so I can show these off some more," I say and with that I flex my enormous muscles. Murmurs of impressed intrigue rise from the crowd, and Caesar makes his own impressed sound, laughing it off and earning a set of laughs from the crowd. Caesar flexes his own arm, and tries to match it to mine but it comes nowhere close, as a sort of comic relief. The two of us laugh loudly, earning a risible reaction from the crowd. Caesar and I really hit it off, but why wouldn't we?

"Avery, is there anyone back home that gets to look at those muscles a little closer, if you know what I mean?" Caesar questions, raising an eyebrow at the crowd, who all laugh and mix their emotions with elation and wonder.

"No Caesar I'm afraid not, but there is someone here who's captured my heart," I say dramatically, earning a succession of soft sounds and sad notes from the crowd and Caesar.

"Will we be meeting her soon?" Caesar asks, placing a hand on the edge of his chair like the world depends on my answer.

"She's coming up next," I say softly, barely above a whisper but loud enough to where the microphones pick up on it and broadcast it to everyone. The most fake emotional sounds rise from the crowd, and I know my job is done. I've wowed them, made them laugh, and given them something to root for. Hell I don't love Allure; she's just something to have fun with before I head home. Although my victory is at the expense of her life, it's not something I'm worried about at all. Allure is exactly what her name suggests; she's nothing more than my toy.

Caesar looks at me, and I can read some sort of hidden emotion in his face. It's like he understands something on a deeper level, almost as if he's sorry that I'm up here, like his passion for the games is some big time façade. I shrug it off though, and Caesar uses the moment to greet the next question.

"One more thing Avery, before you go," Caesar says softly, "Could you tell us what it feels like to know that someone you care about is going to die if you are to get home?" I didn't expect such a brazen question, is Caesar even allowed to touch that topic? I don't care though, because the question has been asked and no one is doing anything about it so I answer.

"It's the most awful feeling in the whole wide world, like your heart is being wrenched right out of your chest," I say, feigning emotions that present my love for Allure. The crowd is one, sorrow flows from them towards me but I do nothing with it. It's all a charade to ensure that I come out on top, even if Allure thinks it's all real.

"Avery Reid everybody!" Caesar says grandly, we are standing side by side and he holds my hand high. I sneak the crowd a peek at my washboard abdominals once again, and the desperate shrieks of the women can be heard as I wink at them before I head off stage, the smile melting off my face and the mechanics of plan set into motion.

* * *

**Cassia Lepidus- District Two**

As Nero exits the stage, I make my way up the stairs, shooting him a glare as I run my hand up the golden banister. His interview was spectacular, of course it was, what about him isn't? He takes notice of my look, giving me one of his own before I make my graceful entrance. I can't appear crazy here, not now…not yet. My approaching insanity is a weapon; I know I can use it in these games to scare the others, but for now, I need to act…ladylike.

"Ladies and Gentleman our next tribute is a shocking one…the sister of the boy we just met…Cassia Lepidus!" Caesar booms, sending an earsplitting tremor through my ears. I'm already annoyed, because this is just too loud, it's deafening. The noise throws me off, my thoughts aren't collected, how will I appear sane now? How?

I smile and wave, holding one end of my shimmering golden gown as I gracefully strut down the stage in my glittery heels. The crowd marvels at my appearance, soaking me up with various oohs and awes. Reaching Caesar, I extend my hand as he offers to plant a warm kiss on it, and the look I give the crowd with my narrowed eyes shows allure and mystery. I want them to think I'm just your normal District Two girl, far from the crazed killer I know I am on the inside. Slowly dipping into insanity while being aware of it is a weird feeling. I guess it began when I knowingly volunteered for these games alongside Nero. Who would want to kill their own brother? Regardless of whether or not you're dwarfed by his shadow, no one ever kills a sibling for that. Except me of course.

"Cassia," Caesar says softly, causing the entire room to hush. "I know I asked this very same question to your brother, but I must ask it to you. What was running through your mind when you volunteered? Why did you do it if you knew he was going into the games alongside you?"

It's obviously the question of the night, as I can tell every capitolite is hanging on the edge of their seats. I mean who wouldn't be intrigued? A brother and sister entering the games together? It's unheard of, scandalous to a degree. I know they got an answer from Nero, but they want to hear it from me, and hear they will.

"He knew how desperately I wanted to go into the games," I begin, adding a girly flair to my voice. "When he stood his ground, he was shattering a dream of mine. Well I wasn't going to let that happen, brother or not he couldn't have my spotlight. So, I did what I knew was the right thing to do. I stood by what my parents and I had planned, and I volunteered just like instructed to do." I finish my answer with a sweet smile, noticeably giving Caesar the chills.

"Well, honor is definitely something to consider when volunteering," he says, not sure on how to paint a positive picture out of this. "Now tell me about District Two. How rigorous is the training program there? Did you feel pressured to enter the games?"

"Most definitely," I say, running a finger down my arm, "In Two children are pressed to train for the games from a very young age, to ensure that in case someone is reaped then we'll be fine. But, it got to the kids heads a while back and now we're just desperate to participate. It turns from a sense of preparedness to bloodlust."

This next comment intensifies the chills on Caesar's body, and he looks at me with a tense expression. He is nervous, this is his only his second year doing this after all and I bet I'm the creepiest tribute that he's encountered yet.

"Well Cassia, you're certainly an interesting one," Caesar laughs awkwardly, but the pitch works and the crowd roars with laughter. You'd think they're being held at gunpoint, the way each person laughs loudly and share expressions of complete hysteria with each other. It's like Caesar just told the world's funniest joke, which certainly didn't happen.

"One more thing Cassia, before you go, tell me this. When you enter that arena, what will you think knowing that your brother is out there, fighting for his life? How will the knowledge that only one of you can go back home affect you?"

His questions stuns me for a moment, I didn't anticipate him to be able to ask such a question. I knew when I volunteered that Nero had to die if I were to win, but did I ever think about the opposite? If Nero is set on winning, then he's factored in the possibility that I will have to die for him to go home. While I'm out there hunting for him, will he be hunting for me?

"Cassia," Caesar says, laying a tender hand on my own.

"Sorry," I breathe, "I think that Nero knows only one of us can leave this place alive, and so if it comes down to it, I'm sure he's prepared enough to kill me as I am to end him."

Everyone draws in their breath, stupefied by what I have said. It's true though, and instead of brother and sister crying and hugging each other in the arena what would be better than a little sibling rivalry? I know Nero's my brother, but I'm crazy remember? I'm fully prepared to kill my way through the arena, even if Nero gets in my way.

* * *

**That's the first part of the interviews! Every tribute has had a perspective now in the capitol! Sorry this took so long, I've just been very busy! Be sure to leave those reviews, we're getting so close to the games. Two more chapters! I'm so happy we're almost there, it's unbelievable. So don't stop now, let's reach my goal of 150 reviews before the games begin! Thanks to everyone!**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


	24. A Round of Applause- Part Two

**A/N: So reviews were slow coming last chapter, but I'm not discouraged! I just really want to meet my goal of 150 within the next two chapters, and I don't know if I can 14 reviews in two chapters…well we'll have to see. A few voiced your concerns about not seeing many interviews last chapter, but do not fret, for last chapter was just part one, this is the real show. So, we're two chapters away, 14 reviews from my utter jubilation, and the sponsor shop is almost ready to open! So here you go, the second part of the interviews!**

* * *

**Maud Perrin- District Three**

Leo's interview was anything but pretty; it was more like a massacre. I haven't really grown to know him, not in the way that two people in an alliance would, which is why we're not an alliance, I guess. But still, I couldn't help feeling heartbroken when he was asked about his home life. The boy just started sobbing; he cried out to the crowd and sat there with his head in his hands. Sobs wracked his body up and down and I could see the salty tears streaming down his face and onto the open palms of his quaking hands. Caesar looked stunned, but I'm sure tributes have had break downs during their interviews before. As soon as a teary-eyed Leo departs the stage, the massive spotlights shine down on me and I am suddenly stumbling onto stage.

I try to wave at the crowd, pulling a disheveled smile and brushing my hair out of my eyes. My stylist didn't really cover much of my hair; she said she preferred it to look natural. So, it's not surprise that I'm finding myself constantly pushing it out of my eyes as I sit down across from Caesar and the interview commences.

"So Maud," Caesar begins comfortably, almost like we've known each other for years, and it bothers me. Something deep inside of me ticks when he rests a hand on mine and laughs loudly and acts like this whole horror show is just a little soiree at his place. Nothing is wrong according to Caesar, everything's fine. Sitting here, with every capitolite in the nation staring me down and the booming voice of Caesar Flickerman beseeching answers from me left and right, I begin to sympathize with Leo. It must've been terrifying, it is terrifying, and this whole experience can only be defined by terror.

It's not long before I'm far beyond annoyed with this interview, but I don't think Caesar's even begun yet.

"Maud, tell us, what was it like to watch your district partner get so emotional, do you think it's a sign of strength or weakness?" Caesar asks a bit too personally. I take a moment to consider his question, what it really means. On one hand, Caesar could be making fun of poor Leo for breaking down, but on the other hand he could be saying that Leo's strength is that he allows himself to show his emotions.

"You know Caesar, I think it's a strength of his. From what I've noticed, Leo is a very emotional person and he won't lie to you or cover up what he's feeling. If I had to say that his emotions are a weakness, and then I'd be lying, because they're what makes him who he is," I answer confidently, proud in what I'm saying.

That's when I realize I've made a terrible mistake.

I haven't given the capitol a spellbinding story of tragedy, romance or adventure. I haven't cheated or cozened anyone of their game; I haven't added the spices of deception and trickery to my arsenal. I'm not playing the game the way someone like a career would, and the capitol hates it. But I can tell by the gleam in Caesar's eye that he thinks the same thing. Maybe he isn't as inhuman as I thought.

The silence of the crowd is confusing, I don't know if it means they're waiting to hear more or they hate what I've said. Panic starts to set in, like fire spreading up my veins. I don't want to lose sponsors, I don't know if I had any to begin with but just because I can't give the capitol a fairytale ending doesn't mean I should pushed to the side, does it? My heart is pumping and my palms become sweaty, and Caesar plants a hand on my shoulder.

"One more thing Maud, behind all the emotion going into the games, the pain and misery and excitement and anxiety that is surrounding everything, what do you think your family is thinking back home, how do you think they feel about this," he asks, sounding genuinely sympathetic.

That's when I realize how shadowed Panem actually is, how dim the peacekeepers and president truly are. They don't even give the people who run this show full information of the tributes, and not even a full profile is required to explain what I tell to Caesar.

"I don't know," I say almost at a whisper, "My family is dead."

The comment must shock my grandmother, who is probably watching back home. How does she feel? How would she react if she saw me talking about mom and dad, imagining the moments I spent curled in a ball on the edge of my bed? My parents are gone, long forgotten, to the point where even the capitol doesn't know that one of their tributes is an orphan who lives with her grandmother, a girl without a mom or dad.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Caesar says, his voice crumbling like the cracks dirt gets after the spring rains. His voice fades into nothingness and so does the soft murmur of the capitol citizens, masquerading as sorry for a girl they don't even know. They don't know what it feels like to lose your family at such a young age, to have everything and then have nothing in an instant. They sit in their houses, they drive their cars, they attend their parties, but do they ever think that this isn't just a show? Do they ever think that perhaps someone's family is being torn apart by this monstrous show? They don't, because this is their everything, and no matter what, when you love something to a certain extent, you'll look past all the darkness that surrounds it, and see only what your heart wants you to see.

Because no one ever listens to their mind.

* * *

**Rip Crevan- District Four**

That exiting quip by the girl from three was so pitiful I could almost vomit. I mean really who doesn't try and play the pathetic card? Oh help me, my parents are dead, it was so traumatic for me when I was like five, oh boo hoo. Well little girl, your parents may be dead, but I killed one of mine. I killed him like the dog he was.

My itchy aqua suit rumples as I make my way onto the stage in a stiff fashion. I look like I'm walking with a pipe up my ass, which is close to the truth more than anyone would like to know. This suit is crammed into every nook of my body it's uncomfortable. My stylist thought I'd look great in it but I look more like my entire body's been starched.

Those annoying rainbow lights shine down on me as I make my way to my seat, every color of the spectrum running over my body. I hate it, I hate this suit and I hate all these people. My hair is plastered to my face courtesy of a full bottle's worth of hairspray, another thing I have to thank my stylist for. God this suit itches.

Plopping down a bit too quickly in the plush chair set out for me, Caesar immediately shakes my hand vigorously. I think about snatching it back but know better than that. I can't look unapproachable, not now. I'm sure the tricks up my sleeve will either make sponsors come running towards or away from me, but for now I need to look nice, presentable, worthy.

"Richard," Caesar begins, but I swiftly cut him off,

"Oh just call me Rip, everyone does," I say with a killer smile.

"Oh what a name," Caesar says with an impressed smile, and I don't know if he's serious or if he's mocking me. The crowd laughs, like it's a joke or something, but I honestly don't see what's so funny.

'Aren't you supposed to be asking me questions?" I hotly ask Caesar who pricks an eyebrow at me.

"Well, someone wants to get to the point," he says, and another resonating boom of laughter rises from the crowd. Caesar is infectious, it's like any word that comes out of his mouth carries all the emotion in the world with it, and the crowd roars with laughter or cries with dissembled sincerity at his words.

I'm annoyed at this point, and Caesar's lack of questions and aptitude to play on my anger is starting to make my blood boil. His pearly white teeth flash at me, nearly blinding my eyes. This capitol man, this perfect, stupid, capitol man thinks he knows me. Well he doesn't.

"So if you're not going to say anything to me, I might as well ask you a few questions," I begin, and Caesar seems a bit taken aback. He goes to say something, but I cut him off, a bit quicker to the punch than he is.

"Who do you think is going to win? I mean you've seen everyone haven't you? I'm sure the scores were enough to key you in on a few things. So tell me, who looks good out of the bunch, I know Blondie and I did well, but that Maple girl? Oh that's a joke, something to stir the pot. What do you think?" I ask a bit hurriedly, licking the corners of my lips every so often.

Caesar is shocked, but he answers, surprising me a bit too.

"You certainly seem prepared enough," he says, drawing the attention of the capitol.

"Oh I'm prepared," I say, beginning conversation more than interview, "I know I'm prepared. See, I've done something no one here ever has before. They may swing their swords all day long but have they ever sunk them into real flesh? These dummies, these fake props and sorry excuses for practice, they're nothing. It's one thing to bury a knife in a mannequin's chest but what about someone real, someone living."

Caesar's eyes flick to the corners of the stage, obviously checking the cameramen. He's probably searching for someone to cut the interview, to drown out my words and send me off the stage, I can tell he's afraid. But he replies once again, wetting his lips with the edge of his tongue before he talks.

"Why do you say that?" He asks, eyes flighty and barely focused on me.

"Because Caesar," I say, bringing my voice to a whisper, "Unlike these buffoons," I laugh for a moment at my choice of words, "I've killed before."

The comment seems to paralyze Caesar, making him freeze in his seat. Beads of sweat form at the pale line between his hair and forehead, the shimmering blue dye coming with it a bit. I bet these capitol citizens never sweat, they never have to do any work. I've worked my whole life; I didn't waste my time sitting in that prison. I trained every day, lifting weights and kickboxing with the instructors. I may be an outcast back in Four, labeled a freak and only spoken of in whispers.

But here, I'm someone different; I'm someone to be feared. And I know why, because in that arena, when the games begin, I won't be the loser I've been for so long.

I'll be a winner.

* * *

**Amerilia Hesterfield- District Five**

Following Ula is a hard act, but my shining silver gown glows resplendently in the low lighting of the stage, and the cyan lights that shower me reflect off of my hair nicely. Eyeliner matching my dress graces the edges of my eyes and Caesar kisses my hand with a warm smile as I take a seat next to him.

"Amerilia," he says, drawing in an awed breath, "Such a beautiful name. Tell me, why did your parents pick that name?"

He immediately touches a soft spot with his words, making my heart beat a bit faster. Mentioning my family sends images of them into my head, their smiling faces and warm expressions flashing by instantly. My heart aches, I long to see them, knowing I probably won't ever again makes it worse. But I can't think like that, I've got to win so I can see them again, and I certainly have to say something to Caesar so I don't blow this interview.

"I think for the very reason you suggest Caesar," I say, flitting my eyelashes a bit, "Because of its beauty."

"Well-spoken words from a beautiful girl," Caesar says with a small grin. He looks to the crowd who all make sounds of adoration. They're his puppets.

"So Amerilia, what do you think separates you from everyone here? What'll make you a tribute to remember?" His questions are grand, each word carefully placed in the midst of his luxurious voice. That voice of his, it's so grandiose, so defined, there's something about it.

"I think I'll be underestimated Caesar," I say, "I don't think I'll be taken seriously, but I've got a trick or two up my sleeve."

"And what would those be?" He asks, wanting to know badly.

"A girl has to have some secrets, right?" I laugh, smirking and flashing my polished teeth at the crowd. I bounce my shoulders as I laugh, scanning the crowd and gaining their support. Soon, their laughs aren't derived from Caesar, they come from me.

"I suppose so," Caesar says, grinning from ear to ear. Knowing I've recovered my interview from the startled moment I had at the beginning, I don't miss a beat now. The interview continues on, his garrulous questions and effervescent mood heightening the crowds excitement. I match his pace, smiling and laughing at all the right moments. Caramen's interview was pathetic compared to the banter Caesar and I carry.

I think about Caramen while all of this happens around me, how he nearly folded up and blew away with the wind during the short time he spoke to Caesar. He was trembling, the visible tremors wracking his body up and down as he spoke on the stage. He was swallowed by the capitol tonight, devoured and spat out without a moment's consideration. Caramen didn't shine in the light like I am.

All the better for me.

One thing worries me though as Caesar and I begin to conclude the badinage. How many girls will work the likable and beautiful front tonight? I know Cassia went for power and Maud focused on emotion but so far you could call Allure's, Ula's, and my own interview pretty close to exactly the same. We laughed with Caesar, joked with him, tried to win the capitol over.

But are we really doing the right thing?

"Amerilia," Caesar says soothingly, his voice like cashmere, "One more question." He locks his misty azure eyes on me, smiling sweetly. If anyone could ever look like the devil, then it would be the man who sits before me, with his charming voice and captivating stare. He's not attractive, but something about him just makes everyone want to follow his lead.

"Are you proud to represent District Five in the Hunger Games? Or do you wish someone else could be here instead?"

It's a bold question, something I'm not sure he should be asking. But questions like these have been slipping out of his mouth all evening so I give it an answer before anyone can stop me.

"I think everything happens for a reason Caesar, and if I wasn't sitting here with you today, it would still happen, just later," I answer. The crowd is confused by my answer; they never put thought like that into their feelings. But I know I've captured the attention of Caesar, and for once, all eyes aren't on him.

* * *

**Aden Hanran- District Eight**

My hair lights up the room like a burst of flame, the electric red coloring gleaming against the close lights. I smile and wave as I strut onto stage, trying my best to exude confidence. I steal a glance behind me at Daedrya, who winks to send me a message of good luck. I wouldn't say the two of us are allies, but I definitely don't think she'll put a knife through my back anytime soon. After all, we are from the same district.

My crisp black ensemble makes me look good, and the lone flare of red coming from my tie makes the whole thing come together. I don't think the capitol is excited as it was when the first tribute walked on stage, but they still sound pretty enthused over my entrance. I'm not showy about it, just trying to draw attention to all the right places.

Sitting down next to Caesar, I instantly think back to Loot's interview, how he talked about his life in District Six. I know Colleen and I had to survive without a house with our kids, but at least we had a strong group to support us, Loot claimed to live alone. The emotional pain that consisted of his interview sent waves of sympathy throughout the room and his whole time on stage was rather lachrymose.

My thoughts about Loot are shattered by Caesar's bellowing, making my attention drawn towards the cacophony. Startled by the noise, I jump a bit, earning laughs from the crowd. Caesar chuckles a bit too, and I play off the thing like a joke.

"Sorry," I blurt out, "My thoughts were elsewhere," I admit.

"At a time like this?" Caesar raves and slaps my knee, driving the crowd crazy. "What could be more important than the current situation you're in?"

"Well, when you've got a certain someone on your mind, then everything seems less important," I say back with half a smile.

"A certain someone?" Caesar balks and the crowd hushes with murmurs of my comment.

"Not just any someone," I say to Caesar, lifting an eyebrow. He returns the gesture, obviously interested in my comment.

"I've got a wife in two kids back in Eight," I confess, "And I'd do anything to get back home to them."

The crowd gasps, each one shocked. None of them expected that I'd be married, not even then would I have kids. The false pity in the air is palpable and in a way it makes me feel wonderful and disgusted at the same time. I know that my family back home can win me sponsors, people love a tribute with something to fight for, but at the same time, knowing that these people only care about me for the money they can win off their sick little bets twists my mind into such an uncomfortable state that it makes me want to vomit my dinner.

"That's something," Caesar says quietly, taking in my story.

"Something indeed," I respond at a lower voice, thoughts of my life back in Eight surfacing in my mind. Lola and Hunter, their sweet faces, and Lena's warm smile, all of them rise in my thoughts and I fight the urge to cry. I never cry, it's something I never have time for, but here, on this stage, surrounded by so much cosmetic vanity that I could scream, the emotions I feel are alien to the ones that normally fill my thoughts. I never thought I would be severed from the life I had in Eight, but here I am, a day away from the Hunger Games.

Caesar slaps me awake from my thoughts with another question, properly timing it to allow me to experience just enough emotion for the cameras. Then, he pipes up and the trance is broken, sending me back to the stage and his blinding smile.

"How do you think your family feels? Will they be able to survive if you don't make it through?"

His question paralyzes me, because I didn't think he would have the courage to say such a thing to me. Of course I'm going to make it through; I don't know if Morgan will support my family if I'm not there to solidify the pact. If I'm gone, can I trust them to take care of Lola, Hunter and Lena?

"I'm going to survive," I say sternly, kindling amusement on Caesar's face. I don't know what he finds amusing, but then his words clear it up for me.

"I don't think I've ever seen a tribute so certain," he says, "And may I wish you the best of luck." He shakes my hand firmly and rises with me, signaling the end of my interview.

"Aden Hanran everybody!" He chants in a grandiose manner and the crowd goes wild. The love my ambition, my cheekiness, and above all, my family.

Maybe this will work out for me after all.

* * *

**Cynthia Pratt- District Nine **

Could these interviews get more tiresome? Everybody is just going on and on and by the time they call for District Nine I'm nearly asleep. The black dress I'm wearing doesn't lend much to my figure, and no one is really jumping out of their seats for me as I walk across the stage. It's ok, I wouldn't either.

I've been watching Caesar all night through the JumboTron, flashes of his face and whatever tribute is sitting next to him dancing across the screen. But now, sitting next to him, I experience a whole different feeling. This evening more than ever he has been touching on dangerous topics, discussing the tributes individual feelings about the games and how they will prevail over the others. It seems gruesome, but I prepare myself anyway for the flow of questions he might send my way.

He begins with a simple one.

"So Cynthia, how are you enjoying the capitol?"

Right away, pain burns in my heart, how dare he use that name. The name only my mother calls me by, the tender love and affection that goes into when said. Everyone calls me Ember for a reason, but only my mother calls me Cynthia. To have this capitolite man, this person who doesn't even know anything about me say it like it's nothing rips a hole in my heart and I wince a little every time he uses it.

"Cynthia? Are you alright?" Caesar asks, worried at the fact that his first simple question stunned the girl across from him.

"I'm fine," I lie, "I was just thinking," I murmur, low enough so only he can hear it. I'm sure he's dealt with stuff like this before, when someone can barely follow his lead.

"Well, maybe a different question would be better," he says, in a voice unlike the grand tone he's been using all evening, this voice is low, almost like he's only trying to have a conversation with me and not all of Panem.

I can see the large JumboTrons in the corners of the room, displaying vibrant images of my face. I look different, nothing like the girl from Nine I know myself to be. Did I leave her behind at the train station? Has coming here changed me into something I'm not? Sure I hunted back in Nine, I can track things and pick up a scent, but will releasing an arrow against a squirrel be the same as shooting a human?

Caesar can tell my thoughts are anywhere but here, so he fires off another question in hopes of wrangling me back to the stage, even though I'm sitting but two feet away from him.

"When the games begin, what will be on your mind?" He asks another question that is certainly not a better question than the first one. Susan appears in my mind, and the mother who abandoned morphling to help a family she left behind. How are they now? Has mother found a way to make things work without me there? Susan can't do much of anything for herself, and well, I don't know if all the drugs have impaired mother from working or not. It's best not to worry but how can I when knowing that if I die in this arena then my family probably will too.

That's when I know the answer to Caesar's question.

"Before I left for here, I made a promise to my family," I say aloud, the crowd can hear me at last. "I've never liked the name Cynthia, it's just too formal for a girl like me. I picked the name Ember, the start of something big, a fire, because it made me feel like an individual. But I realized before I left that I wasn't acting like it. So, I told my family that I would become more than just an ember, but I will grow into something big at last, a dazzling inferno that will win these games for my family."

My speech is true to how I feel, and I think Caesar can tell that. The crowd erupts in smatters of applause, but the only thing that matters to me is the look in Caesar's eyes that let me know I've said the right thing.

"And what a dazzling inferno you'll become," he whispers, to me and me only. I may not have had faith in myself before I came here, but now I do, and I'm beginning to think that with my new allies, the crowds deafening roars and Caesar's approving smile, I'm not the only one.

* * *

**Sasha Galem- District Twelve**

Oh how positively dull these interviews have become; someone just has to get out there and spice things up a bit. Good thing I'm next. The last tribute to be interviewed of the night, I watch as Icarus dolefully treads off the stage, meaning it's time for me to take the spotlight. My gossamer pink gown shows skin in all the right places and the make-up and jewelry I'm adorned with makes me look like some exotic princess. I like it though, and I'm about to play it up.

"My oh my," Caesar says raising his eyebrows and turning to the crowd, "What do we have here?" I blow kisses to the crowd and wink at people in the front seats, reviving the hypnotic state Icarus cast on the crowd. They claw in my direction, desperately trying to get a piece of me.

"I have right to believe you're Sasha," Caesar says with a gleam in his eye like a cat about to pounce on a mouse, "The little firecracker from the chariot rides."

I giggle like a schoolgirl, "Well you've guessed right," I say, blowing another kiss to the crowd.

"Now tell me, you're quite the opposite of what we normally get from Twelve, so what makes you different?" He asks, interested in how I can be so dazzling from a place like Twelve. Well I could tell him the truth and say it's all an act because I'm not stupid like Icarus, but that wouldn't be any fun, so I weave another fabricated tale in hopes of adding a few more sponsors to my already growing fan base.

"Before I left, my father told me that I had to be positive, if I just pouted for myself because I was here, then what good would that do. I had to get over the fact that I'd been reaped, something a lot of these tributes haven't done yet, and now that I'm confident with where I am, I can play this game to its fullest," I say, making sure to keep my posture straight and smile beautifully. Many girls have come on stage tonight, and Ula's stunning interview aside, I think I might be up there with the best of them this evening.

"Those are big words coming from a girl like you, how do you plan on surprising the other tributes in the arena?" He asks, but I give him a cross stare that reeks of sarcasm.

"Now Caesar," I say in a pouty voice, "If I were to tell you my secrets then they wouldn't be secrets now would they?"

He laughs and the crowd is sent into a state of hysteria. Everyone loves me and after a few more questions and a goodbye kiss on the hand from Caesar, I'm on my way with the supportive roars of all of the capitol behind me.

Damn this is easy.

* * *

**Sorry things are taking longer than planned, I'm just really busy, but now that we're passed the interviews I can promise two more chapters this week! That's right! The final chapter before the games and the bloodbath will be up before the week is over! The games are approaching, and we're so close! Be sure to leave reviews, I was a bit disappointed with the attention last chapter got but maybe this will be different? I'm not abandoning this story or anything like that, I just haven't had a good chance to write, so please help me reach my goal of 150 reviews before the games begin!**

**On another note, after next chapter, I will be building the Sponsor Shop forum and sending all of you who are interested in obtaining a line of credit with the shop a PM. Be sure to PM me- this is important- after the next chapter is published. Don't do it now, just wait until next chapter. **

**I think that's all for now, so thanks to all the wonderful support!**

**Oh! Be sure to check out the fabulous new story from one of my favorite authors on the website, nightfuries! To Marvel At Death is the name of it, but you sort of have to read A Grimm Set of Games First. They're both fantastic reads so be sure to check them out!**

**Thanks again guys, it's because of everyone who sends in all the support that this story is thriving! Your reviews and words of praise make me want to continue, so if you love this story and aren't reviewing, please do, because it makes a difference, it really does.**

**May the odds be ever in your favor.**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


	25. Lake Manor

**A/N: You may have thought I'd forgotten, but I did not! I mean of course she's a main character the story's summary is about her! Yes, the final chapter before the games is…A Dolora chapter! The mystery surrounding the assassination of Zios and the sickness of Matthew will continue, and what does Snow have in store for Dolora? Thanks for all the reviews and reads, we're almost there! It's only a chapter away! So here we go, the final chapter before the games.**

* * *

**Dolora Prewitt**

**Lake Manor- Capitol North**

**0300 Hours**

* * *

My violet hair falls in ringlets past my breasts, toppling together in a flurry of purple. It's the only cosmetic alteration I've had done, I needed something to look like I adore the wild styles of the capitol. It's too early to be awake, but here I am, brushing the matted parts of hair out with a brush and trying to mask the grey circles under my eyes with heavy doses of mascara. It only works halfway, but I don't have time to fix it. Stuffing notes, pill bottles, pens, and other assorted items into my purse I quickly make my way out of the master bedroom and out into the hall of my mansion. We recently moved here, Matthew and I, at the call of the president. It wasn't something we wanted to do, our Tudor over at Capitol East suited us just fine, but now the high accents and midnight lights of Capitol North bathe our home in cyans, yellows, and magentas.

I know I have to be at the Games Department in an hour, but something draws me to Matthew's room. I barely have time to see him now that I've been promoted to Head Gamemaker. It's eating me from the inside out, because my child, the one I've worked so hard to keep with me, is dying.

I enlisted the help of Fauna a few weeks ago, a pediatric nurse from Capitol North. She's good with Matthew, keeps him occupied and gets his mind off the sickness. But I need more than a busy nanny to save my child; I need a cure, a cure that doesn't exist.

Stepping into his room, I slowly pry the door open, careful not to make a sound. He's sleeping soundly, his sonorous snore covering the room. I've never known a child this age to snore, but Matthew does. It tells me he's in a sleep deep enough for me to come over, and I do. Brushing the sandy strands of hair across his pallid cheek, I run the back ends of my manicured hands across his smooth face. He stirs, but if he's awake he doesn't show me, and I think he enjoys my early morning greetings. I plant a kiss on his forehead, and slowly remove my lips from my child's brow. I need him to survive, I won't let him die.

I leave as quietly as I came, shutting the door noiselessly. Creeping to the front door, careful not to make any sounds, I slip out into the garage and fire up my Luxaria C25, the latest sports car on the market. Another gift from our generous president.

Zooming down the highways that make up the thoroughfare of Capitol North, I leave Lake Manor in my wake, the neon lights of the city's heart coming closer and closer with every turn of the tires. I have the hatch up, because I don't want the wind blowing my hair everywhere. Even though it's a little past three o'clock in the morning, I still must look presentable.

I take the exit off the thoroughfare to Northbound Skyway, the road that will lead me to the city. The Skyway extends over the top of the city and then loops around to drop you off. A magnificent view of the Capitol's night life can be seen from here, and driving over it gives one a nauseating yet magnificent feeling altogether. The Northbound Skyway ends after a few minutes of fast driving and soon I'm dashing down the slope that will lead me into the city.

It'd be wrong to think that I'd have the road to myself at three o'clock in the morning.

Capitol North is surging with activity, people are everywhere and bright signs light up the streets. JumboTrons replay countless images from last night's interviews, Caesar's bright face laughs on the screen and people stand underneath them staring up in adoration. Music booms from cars, sidewalks, shops and just about everywhere. The high octane shrill of chatter fills my ears. Peoples arms are lined with shopping bags, the department stores never close. This place is alive, Capitol North never sleeps.

Good thing my windows are tinted, that way I can easily blend into the crowd of cars slowly treading down the street. If not, then people would attack my car, clawing to get a glimpse of me. I'm one of the most talked about people right now, the woman with the power to shape the games. Everyone wants to be me, except for myself.

I finally reach the Games Department after what feels like an eternity crawling along the streets of Capitol North. I park my Luxaria in the special spot for "HEAD GAMEMAKER PARKING ONLY" and briskly step out. The car is low to the ground, and my legs wobbles a bit as my heeled boots connect with the rough asphalt. I saddle my handbag on my shoulder and throw my hair behind my shoulders, then proceed to make my way to the side of the building. Accessing the VIP entrance, I flash my key card that hangs around my neck and the machine scans it in a dance of green lights. With permission to enter the building, the door automatically slides open and I step inside.

The place is already buzzing with activity, and people are running everywhere. I was allowed to go home so I could get some sleep before the big day, being in charge and everything, but everyone else was forced to stay. People are talking loudly and running all over the place with files in their hands. Lights flash everywhere, indicating open rooms that are operating fully and the loudspeaker is calling for certain individuals left and right. I listen for the one I'm looking for and sure enough,

"Dolora Prewitt, please come to the Executive Lounge, Dolora Prewitt to the Executive Lounge."

My black heeled boots click loudly against the floor, drawing everyone's attention to me. They all stop, having not noticed my arrival a minute before. The drone of activity I heard before is now gone, and everyone has their eyes glued on me.

"Well don't just there! Get back to work!" I holler with a wave of my bag and it's like I flipped a switch. Everyone goes back to what they were doing, but now they steal the occasional glance in my direction. I march down the hallway, heading for the Executive Lounge, confidence in my stride. I know the President will be there, and so will several of the other important gamemakers. Bracing myself for Snow's chilly presence, I let the door to the lounge slide open and take a step inside.

"Dolora, so good of you to join us," Snow says ominously, waving his hand to an empty Victorian themed chair. The high handles of the compact seat look like manacles to me, but I sit anyway. Snow winks at me and sends a cold smile my way, his own manner of telling me my place. He clears his throat and dabs at the corners of his cracked lips with a lace handkerchief which he then stuffs back into the pocket of his powder blue slacks.

"I think we're all prepared, aren't we?" The President asks, though it's more of a statement. He scans the room for signs of doubt; he can read even the tiniest indication. Nodding with confirmation, even though no one's said a word, we pass his little check.

"The 49th Annual Hunger Games will begin in eight hours and three minutes. Now, until that time arrives, I suggest we all do our best to prepare for the occasion," Snow says icily, staring at me especially. Even though he didn't precedent me in this position, he's already adapted to treating me like a pet. I match his gaze, and the unpredictable gleam in his eye sends chills down my spine. I don't like this man, I never have, but in this moment, I've never felt more fear.

Snow claps his hands, startling everyone but me. "Well, I suppose I should let you all go to work. I'm eager to see what this year has in store, especially since I heard the arena was changed," he says, making me nervous. I knew Snow would find out that I had scrapped Zios' plans, but he hadn't said anything so far so I had hoped I was in the clear. It looks like I'm not, and now I've got to make sure these games are spectacular.

I dare to speak, "I found the previous arena…unoriginal, I wanted this year to be different." Everyone in the room looks at me, and Snow smiles as if I've said something amusing.

"I'm sure they will be different Dolora," He says with a menace to his words, "For everyone involved."

He turns on his heels and leaves the room, the automatic door sliding shut behind him in a definitive manner. I can still hear the clatter of his dress shoes as he makes his way down the hallway and when I'm sure I've heard the whooshing of the elevator, I exit the room. I'm just about to enter the control room when my phone rings. Who would be calling me at this time? If it were someone in the Games Department they could just call for me on the loudspeaker. I fish through my purse from the device and when I look at the name on the screen my heart leaps.

It's Fauna.

I flip the device open and jam it against my ear.

"Is everything alright?" I ask in a panicked tone, I've no idea why Fauna would call me this early especially when she knows I'm busy.

"Hello Dolora," A man's voice says, husky and unknown to me.

"Who is this?" I shriek, drawing the attention of some of the people in the hallway. The look over at me for an instant, but when I shoot them all fierce glares they busily return to work.

"I don't want to do this, but I've been left with no choice," The man says in a whisper, "I've got your son, and his nanny too."

My heart stops, and the blood in my veins freezes. Matthew? He has my Matthew? I don't know what to say, my lips can't form words, but I manage to blurt out a gargled, "Where are you?"

"Where else would I be?" The man says, and I instantly know where. My house, he's at my house. He's holding Matthew and Fauna somewhere in the house. Someone's set me up. I knew the President's meeting in the lounge didn't have enough importance to it for me to be called away so early. I was called to the Games Department so I wouldn't be home.

"Dolora?" The man says, "I'm going to make this very simple, you can either tell President Snow right now that you're going to have to resign, or I'll shoot your son." Resign? This man wants me to resign? Who would….Zios. He was just a pawn; someone wants to be Head Gamemaker, someone close to Snow. Zios was killed so they'd get moved up, and I wasn't supposed to get the job. Now my son will pay for it, my Matthew will get hurt if I don't act fast.

"Perhaps you need some convincing?" The man says, and the suddenly I can hear it loud and clear, a gunshot, it breaks the silence between the two of us and someone screams. Matthew, that's his voice, it sounded like his scream!

"Ok," I breathe slowly, "Ok just give me fifteen minutes alright," I say hurriedly, knowing it'll take some time to work things out with Snow.

"Fifteen minutes," The man says and then hangs up the phone abruptly. I don't know how I'm going to rescue my son, but I do know one thing. I won't be giving up my job anytime soon. Dashing outside, I throw my purse in the back of my Luxaria and turn the ignition. Backing out of the complex I know Snow will personally kill me for this but I've got to get to Matthew. Zooming through the streets, I can hear the terrified shrieks of capitol citizens and I whizz by. Soon I'm back on the Northbound Skyway, heading back to Lake Manor.

* * *

**Matthew Prewitt**

**Lake Manor- Capitol North**

**0402 Hours**

* * *

F-f-fauna's dead, she was there one second and now she's dead. My nurse, my nurse is dead. I want my mommy, I want my mommy, I want my mommy. The cold steel of the gun barrel pressed against my head makes me sob, and I cry out for my mother.

"Can it kid," Fauna's murder shouts, "Your mommy ain't coming home anytime soon."

We sit there in silence, and he paces the floor up and down, swearing about something I can't quite make out. I just want mommy to come home, but I don't know…if I'll ever see her again.

My fears are put to rest about ten minutes later when the front door nearly busts down from the amount of force used to open it. The scary man jumps, and then kneels at my side, pressing the gun against my head once more. It's the same device that was used to kill Fauna, and I don't want him to use it against mommy.

"Matthew?" A voice shouts, one that I recognize as mommy's.

"Mommy!" I cry out, and the man slaps a hand over my mouth. Then something hard smashes into my head, and my world is spinning. Everything becomes fuzzy, and the pain kicks in immediately. I cry out, sobbing due to the immense amount of pain, sobs my mother can hear. She runs into the room, I think I can hear the sound of her shoes coming this way.

"Stop," the man says, and the sound of mommy's shoes stops too.

The scene before me is blurry, and I can barely make out what they're saying to each other because of the pain in my head. Their outlines waver in and out of my vision, and soon I start to slip in and out of consciousness. They're talking for a little while, but I don't hear the end of the conversation, because soon I'm out cold.

* * *

**Mysterious Assailant**

**Lake Manor- Capitol North**

**0428 Hours**

* * *

I was told she would take the bait; all I had to do was wait for her call. The person who set me up for this, the cold-hearted human that wanted this done, they promised me that Dolora would give her job in an instant to save her son. But they were wrong, my employer was wrong. Dolora didn't give up anything; she darted home but didn't give up the job. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, I don't know if I'm supposed to shoot her or what. I already killed the nanny or whoever she was, must I kill again?

"Matthew…," Dolora breathes, and her child is squirming on the floor, crying from the wound I gave him. I didn't mean to smack him with the gun, it's just a reflex. Loud noises, people quickly approaching, things like that turn on reflexes inside of me, violent ones, disturbed ones.

"He'll be fine," I manage to choke out, despite all the freaking out I'm doing.

"Don't touch him," Dolora says vehemently, like I might rip him from limb to limb.

"He won't die tonight, neither will you," I say, not confident in my words.

"I guess she was expendable then," Dolora says, pointing at the nanny's body, choking on her words and stifling a few tears.

"I had to get you here somehow," I say, lying. She was never supposed to come here, the gunshot was supposed to give her some sort of panicked ambition to resign and then flee here. But that didn't happen, this girl, who can't be older than twenty-five, died tonight because of me. Because the plan went awry.

"I didn't do it," Dolora murmurs softly, referring to the request I made earlier.

"I can tell," I say flatly.

"Why?" She asks, "Why are you doing this? Has someone put you up to this?"

"I didn't have a choice," I say back icily, my eyes narrowing at her. She's growing impatient, there's answers she wants and safety she craves. I can't lose control, not now.

"Everyone has a choice," She whispers.

"Not me," I hiss.

"Let us go, I don't understand who wants the Head Gamemaker to change every day or why they want it to happen, but I didn't ask for the job. It was an offer I couldn't refuse," She pleas.

"Then you didn't have a choice," I say.

She smiles, something I don't expect her to do.

"I thought perhaps this was Snow's doing, but I thought, he hasn't even see me work yet, how could he judge me so soon? So on the way here I called him, told him I had to run home for a bit because someone is holding my son and his nanny hostage. He wasn't too happy that someone was holding up his Hunger Games, so if you'd be so kind too…," she doesn't get to finish her sentence, because I shoot her in the knee cap.

Her scream is ear-splitting, but it doesn't wake her comatose son on the floor. Matthew is out; he'll be out for a while. Dolora is screaming curses and profanities, clutching her wound and sending a torrent of tears to the Persian rug on the floor. I wonder if Persia still exists, or if it's just some place made up like the government, like most of the other countries are.

She can't move now, she's been rendered helpless by the bullet in her knee.

"W-w-what, w-w-why, I-I-I," Dolora struggles to speak so I help her out.

"What? Why? You don't understand?" I say, cupping a hand to my ear. "Oh ok, maybe you'll understand better in a few moments." I punch her in the face, sending her head crashing to the ground. I wasn't told what to do if the plan crumbled, and now that I've been angered, things are going to get a little bumpy for Dolora and her son.

She lifts her head in vain, pushing it against the floor. She cries softly, out of pain, misery, and confusion. I feel sorry for her for a moment, but then bring my foot down on her stomach, making her squeal like a pig.

"I think you were explaining how President Snow has sent some people here or something to take care of things. Well, they'll happen to find you in worse condition than they expected I bet. You won't be running a command center anytime soon on that leg," I say mockingly, spitting on her face. The saliva runs down her cheek, mixing in with the make-up and ruining her pretty little face.

There's a sound at the door, and I know it's time for me to take my leave.

"Think hard about what you're doing Dolora," I say, turning around before opening the back door. A sliver of moonlight catches my face, but I don't think her eyes are open wide enough to see me. The pitch black darkness of the room hid me before, but now in this knife of moonlight, she could see me if she tried. She makes some choked sound, and I don't look back as I slip out of Lake Manor, off into the night.

* * *

**Dolora Prewitt**

**Lake Manor- Capitol North**

**0723 Hours**

* * *

The games are in less than five hours, and I'm sitting in bed with doctors packing their bags and whispering words to someone in the corner. It's not just anyone in the corner, oh God, its Snow.

"Dolora," he says in his majestic voice, coming over to the side of the bed. "I certainly hope you'll feel well enough to return to work for the games."

"I think I'm fine," I say, my leg now fully healed thanks to the technical advancements of the capitol doctors. Snow had them brought here after his men found me on the floor, bullet in my knee and blood on my face. Matthew was woken up, and the only thing he suffered was a bruise to the back of his head. He's sleeping next to me now, hugging the leg that wasn't injured tightly.

"Well, that's warming to hear," Snow says, a smile on his face. I can't read the expression, I don't know if he's happy about my health or the fact that his games won't be interrupted by this attack.

"I'm going to hold a special meeting before the games," Snow says darkly, "Someone is purposefully trying to off my gamemakers."

"You think so?" I say, wondering if he could be telling the truth.

"Oh I know so Dolora, no one would want to kill Zios but me. And now someone made a move against your family," he pauses to make a tsk-tsk-tsk sound, "That poor nurse, a fine product of the capitol's medical system that's now been wasted. Criminals like the one that broke into your home need to be stopped Ms. Prewitt, I trust you agree?"

I can't think of what he could be referring to, so I just say yes.

"Well, I'll be taking my leave now. That leg should be good as new, so I wouldn't dilly-dally," Snow instructs, and closes the door on his way out. He was here, Snow was in my house, Snow was here. The chilly feeling he leaves in room hangs in the air, and I quickly changed out of the clothes I had been wearing before I slip on new ones. The medical advancements of the capitol amaze me, I flex my knee and there's no pain. But the haunting memory of just hours ago, when my knee felt like it split open from the inside, sears it's image into my brain.

I take one more look at Matthew, whose sleep was undisturbed when I shrugged him off my leg. My sweet son was a pawn, just like Zios was. It's heartbreaking, but someone is using the people around me as a greater design, a design that's targeted at me.

* * *

**Altruarch Heavensbee**

**Lake Manor- Capitol North**

**0744 Hours**

* * *

The coffee in this house is bland, I can't stand hazelnut. There's nothing to eat but some wheat cereal, which is worse compared to the coffee. Spitting out the sawdust like flakes, I just sip a cup of white jasmine tea while I wait on Dolora.

My presence scares her; she nearly jumps out of her clothes. Which wouldn't be a problem by my standards.

"Don't worry, I'm a friend," I say warmly, knowing that Snow's instructions for me to wait here wasn't the best idea considering the woman was just attacked by a stranger.

"Who are you?" She says with wild eyes, her purple hair seeming to stand on end with anxiety.

"The name is Altruarch Heavensbee, newest member of the illustrious circle of gamemakers. Thanks be to our wonderful President for allowing me to hold this position, etcetera, etcetera," I say, nodding my head to Dolora.

"Why are you here?" She asks a new question, boy is she full of them.

"Snow instructed me to stay here, to speak with you. We're going back to the Games Department in my car," I extend my hand to the door, "Shall we?"

Slipping into the driver's seat of the Royalcoupe XX Snow gave me yesterday; the luxury car's velvet seats are comfortable beyond belief. This car isn't as nice as Dolora's, but that's because she's Head Gamemaker. She looks at some files on the dashboard, a ponderous look on her face.

"Those are for you," I say as we pull out of Lake Manor and make our way towards the highway. "They are descriptions of possible suspects who could've been at your house last night. The reason we've filed them down so quickly is because someone saw the assailant leaving your house, dashing across the street. They got a good look of his face, so see if you can nail him from that line-up."

She looks at me, and I think she catches my lie. She starts to sort through the files, holding up the various photos when her breath draws in sharply. She must've gotten a glance at the perpetrator in the darkness, someone who is in that file.

"This is him," she says, holding up a dossier for me to see. It's the one that stuns me the most, I wouldn't have been surprised if she had picked anyone else from the line up but this one in particular is striking.

Because it's not anybody, the person she holds up for me to see is Chaff Burgundy, winner of last year's Hunger Games.

* * *

**Archibald Greaves**

**Games Department- Command Center**

**1144 Hours**

* * *

Dolora enters the room around fifteen minutes until the show, her forehead sweaty and eyes wild. She immediately accosts me, taking me by surprised. I place a white-gloved hand on her shoulder, perhaps in an effort to calm her down.

"Whatever is the matter my dear," I say, my crisp white mustache bouncing up and down. Oh how my mustache amuses me so.

"Chaff Burgundy broke into my home last night and killed my nanny, beat my son, and shot me in the knee cap," she says in a flurry of words.

"Poppycock!" I shout, causing several people to turn their heads.

"As you were!" I yell to them, reminding them to mind their own business.

"It's true," Dolora says, "Snow wants you to see him upstairs, says it's something important." She seems to be dismissing me, but I take my time walking to the Executive Lounge. Snow isn't holding this meeting just for me; I notice the lack of other gamemakers in this command center, scrutinizing each hallway to make sure none are in sight.

Reaching the lounge, my suspicions are confirmed when everyone else is present. I take a seat closest to the President; one I presume was left open for me. That Heavensbee man sits opposite from me, and raises a questionable eyebrow. I don't make any indication that I noticed him, although we both know I did.

The President goes on about what happened to Dolora and how someone is trying to rid of his gamemakers and we must report any suspicious activity directly to him. I don't listen to most of it, but visit the swarm of thoughts in my mind instead. The games must be beginning any minute, and I nearly run to the command center when he lets us go.

The automatic doors slide open for me, and I can hear Dolora speaking.

"We are live in Three,"

"Two,"

"One."

My lips curl at the edges of my mouth. Everything is perfectly in order. I take a seat in the back of the command center, eager to watch my design reach fruition. Sipping a glass of champagne left for the gamemakers, the frothy liquid is trapped in my moustache. I don't care, because things are going swimmingly. The Hunger Games have begun.

* * *

**A lot happened this chapter, I wanted to begin the games on more of a mysterious note instead of having the final capitol chapter be about the tributes and their thoughts pre-going in. Who is victimizing Dolora and her son? Was it really Chaff that broke into her home? How will the new gamemaker, Altruarch Heavensbee play a role in the story of Dolora? Will Snow catch the person who's gunning for his gamemakers? And what was that creepy POV about Greaves? Keep reading my dear friends, and perhaps you'll find out.**

**The Sponsor Shop is opening sometime in the next few days, so PM me if you want to be a sponsor, that way I'll be sure to tally your points and such. Also, if you're going to be a sponsor, you can sponsor up to three tributes, so leave those names for me in the PM as well. The bloodbath is next chapter, and I can't wait to reveal what sort of gruesome arena lies in store for the tributes.**

**Also, massive THANK YOU to WritingForTheFuture, who started reading this story from the bottom up as of late. We've hit over 150 reviews! Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing and just…THANK YOU, it means the world to me. It's inspiring and wonderful and just pushes me to keep writing for you guys.**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


	26. The One That Got Away

**A/N: Hooray for reaching the games! Hooray for over 150 reviews! Hooray for my wonderful support group! This is just awesome! I can't believe I've actually made it this far, this has just been such a wonderful journey and has really helped me find myself as a writer. Bless all of you, even the people who just read, all of you are fantastic, this is such a huge dream of mine and it's coming true right before my eyes. So, this chapter wasn't originally supposed to be this long, but I just got carried away. I hope you like the theme of the arena, it changed about ten times, and on another note. I'm sorry if anyone's tribute dies this chapter, but it had to happen, because this is…THE BLOODBATH!**

* * *

**Allure Shine- District One**

One second I'm sitting in my home, flipping through a Vartarienne catalogue and the next second I'm standing in an all-white room, about to go into the Hunger Games. All of this, was it meant to happen? Was I supposed to be a part of this? Jemima's death propelled me into these games, if she hadn't rebelled, if she hadn't tried to escape, I wouldn't be here. I wasn't reaped, so why am I here?

I've been sitting in this room alone for quite some time now. The room is so quiet I can hear the ticks on the wall clock sound off every second. There's a cage over the device, probably so I can't smash the glass and carry a shard with me into the games, wouldn't want anyone to have an unfair advantage.

It's been about thirty minutes before Miss Luna comes in, a black outfit draped over her covered arm. She's wearing a leather suit, tight-fitted and showy. Her cleavage nearly tumbles out of her clothes every time she takes a step, but she works the outfit. Miss Luna doesn't say a word as she hands me the apparel, but it's clear I'm meant to change into it.

When I'm done, she looks me up and down, and speaks lowly,

"Better than Jemima would've looked in it."

I think she brings up her former tribute on purpose, maybe to spite me or cause me pain. The look in her eye tells me she really doesn't care, and in that moment I learn what kind of person she is. She's a leech, someone who uses what she's given to make herself look better. She was probably happy when Jemima died. I mean, the girl wasn't gorgeous or anything. Getting a more attractive tribute probably made things nicer for Miss Luna, but now that she won't be stylizing anything about me ever again unless I win these games she couldn't really care. The fifteen minutes of fame I can give her are gone, and now she'll go back to working for whatever fashion department she can.

"She was a sweet girl," Miss Luna says, catching me off guard. Didn't I just peg this woman? Why is she saying something like this all of a sudden?

"Don't you think?" Miss Luna asks me.

"I never met her," I say, but it comes out harsher than I intended.

"Of course not," Miss Luna says, seeming to chide herself. "She was different. Not like most District One girls. I've seen a lot of girls come into these games; only one has ever escaped while I've been here. That was last year," Miss Luna continues, making a reference to Summer. I wonder what she's doing right now, if my mentor is working to get me some sponsors. Of course I'll already be funded thanks to my district, but she could do more.

I shouldn't even be funded, I should be home.

And that's when it sinks in, that I shouldn't be here and Jemima should instead. She was reaped, why did she get to take the easy way out? I was safe, I trained hard and was prepared but I made it to eighteen, I survived all the reapings and I had plans for a life. Sure I had arranged a shopping trip with Silk and still went crazy for boys and clothes but that's the point. I could live such a simple existence because I had made it past the capitol's little system. I had survived.

Looks like I was wrong. The tears flow freely, and Miss Luna lays a hand on my left shoulder. The soft leather of her glove sends chills down my arms and goose bumps rise all over the skin. I can taste the salty substance on the edge of my mouth, running its way down my face. My body shakes in short little bursts, and I'm falling apart before the games even begin. I just shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be here, and it's just not fair.

"Attention tributes, one minute until the games begin," the voice of Claudius Templesmith chimes, making me realize how different things are about to become. I'll have to survive, I'll have to work hard, and I'll have to kill.

"You should get on that platform before it leaves without you," Miss Luna suggests, although it's not really a suggestion. I do as she says, and place a tentative foot on the edge of the large metal ring. Stepping in, I let out a faint gasp as the clear casing surrounds in one swift motion. I'm trapped inside a case, and I whirl around to face Miss Luna.

But I was right about who she was, because she's already gone.

I watch the second hand on the clock, unable to hear its tick that seemed booming just minutes ago. The red line makes its way back to the twelve, and then without warning, my plate begins to rise. I'm ascending, into a world unknown to any of us. I don't what it will be, a forest, a field, a mountain? Wherever we are, I have to find my allies as quickly as possible, especially Avery and Revolc.

The plate is slow to rise, and I can count past a minute in my head before I can see something at the top of my case. There's no ceiling to it, it's just an empty expanse. But it's not light I see, in fact, it's darkness. My plate continues to ascend, and soon I'm beginning to leave the tight chute I was traveling up. It's a relief and a frightening thought at the same time, that soon I'll be in the arena.

It's dark, like it's night outside. The chute rises and soon my metal plate is parallel with the ground. The cover pulls back and exposes me to the elements, and soon I'm just standing there. I can see the tributes next to me well enough, but everyone else is a dark blur. I can't see but thirty feet ahead of me. At any moment I could leave this plate, but I know there are explosives lacing my stand, armed to blow me to pieces if I so much as take a step forward.

Templesmith's voice rings out once again, "The 49th Annual Hunger Games will begin in sixty seconds." Then, a bright orange countdown clock appears in the sky, looming over us as if it were the grim reaper. The numbers count down, each one more terrifying than the next. My palms begin to sweat, and I can see that the boy to my right, the one from Ten, is panicking.

The timer ticks past the fifty second mark, and I try to scan the black expanse for any sign of the other careers, but to no avail. The girl from seven is to my left, the one who got a twelve. I train my eyes on her, knowing she's one of our targets for the bloodbath. Rip approached us before the interviews, one of his crooked smiles flashing.

_"I know some of us have our own personal vendettas to settle, but the bitch from Seven is fair game. The first one that finds her, gut her like the slippery fish she is, "he says, menace glowing in his warped eyes. _

Rip had his instructions clear, Maple is a threat, and she did something to score that twelve, something that could spell a huge problem for us. I know I have to follow her when the horn sounds, officially beginning the games. I look back up to the timer, noticing we're entering the thirties. Thirty-three melts into thirty-two, and I can hear the disgusting sound of someone throwing up.

Get it together people; I think I'm the only one around here with entitlement to unhappiness, because I'm not even supposed to be here. After that thought, searing anger burns in my heart, wrath towards Jemima for putting me in this situation. Did she not think that even if she escaped, someone else would take her place? She must've known that by doing something as rash as that that someone else would be hurt.

But she probably wasn't thinking about anyone else as she dashed down the hallway of the Training Complex with a knife in her hands.

Twenty-Seven becomes Twenty-Six, and I can hear someone sobbing in the darkness. I don't know if I should call it night yet, because we might just be in an enclosure, somewhere inside. Or what if it's always night, what if the sun never shows itself?

I settle into a running stance once fifteen flashes by, letting me know I'll have to make a break for the Cornucopia. I can't see it, but I know it's straight ahead, as all pedestals point towards it. I just have to run and find someone from my group, which shouldn't be all that hard.

Ten. My heart begins to pump vigorously inside of my chest, hammering against my skin and accelerating my breathing before I've even begun running.

Nine. I brace my legs, knowing that I'll have to be as quick as possible.

Eight. Miss Luna's comment about Jemima plops into my head. Why did she feel that this girl was different? Was there something about her that was different from most District One girls? I don't even know what she looked like.

Seven. I see Silk in my mind, laughing and chatting about boys.

Six. I think of Avery, and what Tatyana saw? Does he love me, oh why am I even thinking about this right now?

Five. Jemima, what did she look like?

Four. Am I here for a reason? Was I supposed to be a part of this? Was Jemima just a part of something bigger?

Three. Everything happens for a reason, right?

Two. My mother, my father, the people back in District One that I love swarm my head. What if I died, what will happen?

One. Will I die?

Zero. All hell breaks loose.

I dart forward into the black, tearing up the ground behind me. I look to my left, but Maple is gone. I can't believe she escaped so fast, she must've avoided the cornucopia on purpose. She may be small, but she's not stupid. Propelling forward, I run to the cornucopia, hoping to avoid any potential threats. I know someone like Nero or Daedrya wouldn't hesitate to skewer me, and I take caution not to collide with one of them.

Someone is standing in front of me, rooting through the weapons littering the stone ground. We're on stone, pavement of some sort. I run a hand along the ground and feel loose rocks, gravel and what feels like asphalt. The person in front of me quits rummaging; they've apparently found what they're looking for.

They hold something that looks like a trident in the light, and thankfully I've figured out who is standing next to me.

"Ula," I hiss, causing the girl from Four to wheel around, but then lower her offense when she sees me.

"Allure, get going," she barks, "It's time to hunt."

She bounds off, trident in hand and a gleam in her eyes. She's ready to kill, but am I? Can I just end someone's life so quickly? Destroy what they thought they'd be able to cling onto for much longer. I get the answer I'm looking for in a few moments, because a knife whizzes past my head, just inches from me. I don't know who it is in the darkness, but as they approach, I can make out the bulky figure of the boy from Twelve.

Icarus advances, a knife in his hand. Trails of tears stream down his face, gracing the corners of his mouth and pooling into his lips. He stumbles forward slowly, holding his knife high, prepared to bring it down on me. I try to form words, but I'm too terrified to speak. Could this be it for me? Could my life end so soon? I don't have a weapon; I need a weapon, like now.

I scramble away, jetting over to the cornucopia while Icarus runs after me. He's desperate now, I could tell he was slipping away before the games began but he's desperate now. I'm searching frantically, looking for a sword or something. My eyes light on one, and I hoist it into the air and clutch the hilt with both hands. It's a bit big for me, but it'll work.

Then, the place lights up.

Torches ring the outside of the main area, showering the zone in spots of orange. When all of the torches turn on, I can make out what we're standing on, and it's worse than I thought.

We're on top of a building, a tall one at that. This is the roof, and the torches outline the edges of the structure. I think I know why they turned on. People are going to want to see what's going on, and now that Icarus is chasing me, the bloodbath has officially begun.

He knows I'm struggling to hold my sword, and quickly advances on me. That knife glimmers in the low light given off by the torches, and I know he won't have any problem shoving it into my stomach. I hold my ground, but the manic look in his eyes spells out my doom. He swings forward, missing horribly, and I realize that in his desperation he's disoriented, not fully in control of his motions.

Trying to get a better angle on him, I move to the side a bit while he flounders about. Then, as soon as I'm prepared to bring down the sword, the first cannon booms.

I don't know what I expected to sound like, but nothing prepares me for the rattling noise as it fills the entire arena. Anyone could here that sound from inside the arena, and it's deafening at first. It surprised me as much as it did Icarus, but the shock causes me to drop my sword. It clatters to the floor, doing two things, leaving me defenseless, and giving away my position to Icarus.

The boy from Twelve whirls around, prepared to gut me like a fish. He runs forward, tears still streaming down his face, arcing the knife to the right, hoping to slice my neck.

An arrow, coming from what seems like nowhere, flies through the air and impales Icarus in the chest. The crimson stains immediately form around his heart, and blood pours from his mouth. He looks at me with sad eyes, so sad I can't help but feel sympathy for this boy. I had seen him in practice, he was strong, he had trained, but the games got to him, he went mad with the thought that the life he had worked so hard to build up was crashing to an end.

He topples forward, smashing into the ground, sending the arrow up through his body with another sickening sound. I can hear the crunching sound of bones and nerves penetrated by the metal shaft, and the next horrifying thought pops into my mind.

Who killed Icarus?

I match my twirl with the sound of the cannon, wheeling about to see the striking figure of Daedrya standing about fifty feet away. I can see her perfectly in the torch light, her long red hair draping over her shoulders. She doesn't make a sound, doesn't give me a look or anything, but knocks another arrow into her bow, and I realize her next target is me.

I hit the floor hard, scrambling to find something around to use as protection. I dive behind a crate of food, oranges I think. The arrow lodges into the front of the crate, dead in the center. My breath is feverish and I'm slipping back into the dark fear I felt clawing at my insides when Icarus was after me. Just like that, someone who was alive on second is dead, but I guess that's how these games work.

I peer out from the crate of oranges, but Daedrya is gone. Apparently she's smart enough to move onto the next tribute, someone she can kill easily. Someone like Icarus. I haven't found a single ally of mine yet, save for Ula who I saw for a brief moment. It's time to hunt, she had said, but all I've done so far is act as pray. Daedrya got her hands on a good bow somehow, which is bad for our alliance. Is there another set out here, or did she get the only one.

I find a sword, shorter than the one I used against Icarus and easier for me to carry. It still looks deadly though, and the black of the blade shines under the light of the torches. Tributes are still everywhere, it may have felt like an eternity between the time I spent fending off Icarus and running from Daedrya but it's only been a few minutes. In the distance, my eyes alight on a small addition to the roof of this building, it looks a door. There's a way off this roof, and tributes are already using it to escape. I can make out the girl from Twelve looking behind her as she slips in behind her two allies; does she know her district partner is dead? Probably not, but there's nothing I can do about their escape, but the boys running towards the same exit, now they're something I can handle.

One of them opens the door, trying to usher his fellow allies inside, but they're still a distance off. I can see Rip to my side, approaching some girl on the ground with his knife, blood already stained on the weapon. He's either killed already or injured someone badly. Only two cannons have sounded, so was he responsible for the other death? So many questions are buzzing in my brain as I run for the exit door, trying to stop the triad of boys. One of them sees me coming, and for once I feel powerful in these games, because I can see the same fear swimming in his eyes that took hold over me moments ago, and it feels good to be on the other side.

* * *

**Auric Zola- District Eleven**

I reach the door first, only spotting it because the boy from Six had found it first. He and his allies have already escaped the rooftop, safe from this terrifying bloodbath. I think only two cannons have sounded, but that doesn't mean there won't be more. I'm tempted to slip through the doorway, but Caramen and Omri are still running, trying to get here. Good thing we haven't been seen…crap. Sprinting towards, sword in her hands, is the girl from One.

We've been spotted now, so I abandon the need for stealth and scream their names.

"Caramen! Omri! Look out!"

They don't stop running, but Caramen sneaks a peek over his shoulder, and I think I can see his beady eyes widen at the sight of Allure. Her feet are pounding the ground, her long legs tearing up the rooftop's pavement. I still don't where we are, a city of some sort? Could the arena be some place urban this year? Not like the normal elemental arenas tributes are exposed to. It makes me feel safe for a moment, but then my mind races with everything that could be hiding in these buildings.

Caramen reaches the door before Omri does, and I decide it's time to go. The two of us enter the door and Omri is fast behind us. Allure is gaining though; she'll be here in seconds. Omri slams the door shut as Allure pounds on it with her fists. She struggles to open the door, her screams piercing the night sky. I don't know if it is night, but I'm going to go with that.

Omri's eyes find the lock, and he turns the handle sharply to the left, only feeling safe after the clicking sound is heard. We're safe, but by locking the door, no one else can escape the rooftop. We run down the stairs, our thunderous footsteps resonating off of the corridors close walls. We've given ourselves away, and I can only hope that the boy from Six and his allies aren't waiting at the bottom of the stairs for helpless tributes.

We reach the bottom of the massive stairwell, and look to see if any other tributes are down here. The coast seems clear, and we steal out into the darkness, having narrowly escaped death. We don't know where to go, but as we walk, torches begin to light up at our sides. Every step we take signals a new torch, and as we walk the arena becomes illuminated. From where we are, we can see the arena for miles, extending in several directions for what seems like forever.

That's not what's really shocking though, the real problem is the layout of the arena. It's a city, but not a pretty one like the capitol. Dilapidated buildings pepper the arena, poking out of the massive expanse of water before. On both sides of the walkway is nothing but water, and as we look closer into the distance, we realize where we are. A sunken city, ravaged by the mass volumes of water taking up much of the space. Some buildings poke out higher than others, looking less ruined. I don't think it's nighttime though, I think the lighting is like this on purpose, and the truth of the matter settles in. In this underwater city, you'll never be safe.

Screams and the clang of sharp steel can be heard from all the way down here, and the reality of the ongoing bloodbath above us settles in. We've got to run before the tributes up there bust down the door or find another way down. I'm sure the gamemakers wouldn't make it so that tributes could get trapped up there.

I see a building far off enough to where we'll be safe for a while, and turn to Caramen and Omri. We haven't really spoken at all yet, we've just been taking in the unreal quality of it all. We're here, in the Hunger Games, and no matter how much we help each other, only one of us can go home. I shake my head at the thought, and am the first to speak.

"See that building there," I point to a monolithic structure in the distance, "I think we'll be safe there as long as we keep our distance."

"What are we going to do for food," Caramen stammers, still shaken up.

"We'll figure that out later," I say, taking on the position of leader once again, "But for now we've got to find somewhere to camp, and I think that building looks good."

"We're in some sort of city," Omri says chillingly, "All the buildings are destroyed. But look," he points off far to the east, "There's some sort of dome." Sure enough, far away is some massive structure, a brilliant dome resting on its top. It looks like a sort of coliseum, and I have no intention of going there.

"What's that?" Caramen points to something to the west, something that looks like a bridge. "Where does that go?" He wonders aloud, thinking of all the gruesome possibilities that could lie beyond that bridge.

"I don't want to find out," I say, "Let's just get to that place." I reiterate my idea and the two stop scanning the arena at last. Our destination in the distance, we set out for the building, silently praying we'll be able to escape the madness we're leaving behind.

* * *

**Ruci Nonabi- District Ten**

I cower in the darkness, removing myself from any light cast by the torches. When they went off, several tributes were exposed, and Roger had been one of them. The boy from Four, the horrible boy with the crooked grin, dashed for my district partner. We hadn't really formed a bond, but I was still searching for him in the dark, hoping to forge some sort of temporary bond or something, at least until we got out of the bloodbath.

But then Rip got ahold of him, and threw him to the ground without wasting a moment. The boy from Four made quick work of my district partner, slashing and hacking him to pieces with a set of sharp knives. His screams rang throughout the arena, his terrified and pained screams. I can still hear them, but that's not what makes me tremble now, it's the sound that followed them, the deafening boom of the cannon.

It was the first to go off, and what I'm sure is only the first of many.

Crouching in the darkness, I fumble around for some sort of supplies but I find nothing. There's no way I can get any closer to the cornucopia, unless I wanted to die. Deciding against taking the risk, I know the only way down is through that door. A door now guarded by the girl from One. But that's not the only way down, because a tribute has already jumped off the roof, surprising all of us at first.

Then, I heard what some of the others heard, the splash of water. There was an expanse of water down there, deep enough to jump into and survive. We're not terribly high up, but at the same time we're nowhere close to the ground. Now, from my vantage point, I can see the group of four tributes looking over the edge, prepared to jump into the water and flee the careers. But it won't happen without a fight.

Avery, the boy from One, meets the boy from Two in a shower of sparks from the clash of their metal. Nero is no fool, and is strong with that sword. He parries every single blow Avery deals, and the two boys are using all of their strength to match one another. Avery sidesteps an underhand blow from Nero, and doubles back with his own vertical slice. The boy from Two blocks the hit though and tries to roll his blade down onto Avery, but the other boy sees through his plans and dodges with a deft parry.

It's almost like a dance, and it's beautiful for a second, until Avery slices Nero's leg.

It's not deep, but the wound is enough to knock the boy off guard. Avery kicks him in the chest, a move that winds Nero but rescues him at the same time. They were so close to the edge, that Avery's kick sends Nero toppling over the side of the building, down into the dark waters below. Cursing loudly, Avery lashes out at the three girls who remain, but he knows he can't take them on.

Then things get ugly.

The other careers lock in on the alliance by the edge, coming to Avery's side to help him deal with the others. Cynthia, Daedrya, and Amerilia put their backs to the edge, facing the careers with their weapons drawn. Daedrya and Amerilia hold bows, aiming them at the careers that are coming close. Cynthia holds two knives in her hand, the sharp edges of each one gleaming in the red light of the torches. Ula, Revolc, and…that boy from Four, the one who killed Roger…he's there too.

I want to do something; I want to save the girls by the edge and kill Rip. I want him to pay for what he did to Roger. I know revenge is a sin; it's something that I shouldn't be thinking about, but he killed my district partner without even thinking about. He's like a machine, programmed only to kill.

"Look what we have here," I can hear Rip whistle; I'm not terribly far from them, just on the other side of the cornucopia. "What are pretty girls like you doing fighting people like us?"

"People like you?" Amerilia snorts, "Monsters, you mean?"

"She's got an attitude," Revolc says mockingly.

"I wonder if she'd still be this rude with a knife to her throat?" Rip questions aloud, laughing a little.

"Screw you," Cynthia blurts out, earning a few laughs from the careers.

"This has been nice," Rip says once more, "But it's time to end this."

Something clicks inside of me, I know I won't win these games. I've got no allies, no district partner, no weapons, no idea where I am, no chance. But these girls do, and Nero is probably drowning in the water below. Without thinking, almost in the same manner Rip tore Roger to pieces, I emerge from my hiding place in the darkness and bolt for the cornucopia. They don't hear me yet, but when I scoop up a knife from the cornucopia and get within range of the nearest Career, signals are perked.

Ula turns to me, shock in her eyes, she does nothing to help her allies, but simply gets down before I throw the knife. The weapon leaves my hand, flying from my palm and hurtling towards Rip's sneering face. Revolc says something, some sort of warning, and Rip turns to face the knife.

But it never reaches him, my throw was faulty and the knife falls short, clanging to the ground in a definitive metallic sound. Rip smirks, obviously amused and says,

"Take care of her, Ula."

"You don't order me around Richard," Ula says shooting him a glare, "But, it'd be a pleasure."

Her words send some sort of spark throughout the arena, and the tributes who had been forced to hide in the darkness because of Allure's station by the door rustle in the shadows, attempting to escape once again. However, my mission is accomplished, because in the confusion, Amerilia and Cynthia scuttle down the side of the building and then plummet into the water below, and judging by their cries I can tell they are safe. I am frozen in motion, but Daedrya uses the distraction to lodge an arrow in Revolc's thigh, and then follows her allies off the building into safety.

Revolc's scream pierces the night, but I don't hear the end of it as Ula snares me in a net. I fall to the ground, hapless and injured. There's nothing I can do, and I weep and cry out as the trident pierces my flesh, drawing blood from the three entry holes. The weapon stings my skin, and the punctures burn. Ula brings in the trident again, tearing apart flesh and ripping nerves apart. The gore is visible on the weapon, I can see my own blood glimmer in the torch light, and I cry out for my mother.

The careers snicker, and then Ula jabs at me once again, agonizing the already burning wounds. I can hear Rip shout something, and he dashes off to find some new prey, the others that were hidden are obviously on the move now. Ula continues the torture, and I wail as the previously made punctures are torn apart and bits of skin, flesh, and blood fly everywhere. Ula twists the metal in deep, exacerbating my injuries.

Then, with a swift jab to the neck, my jugular is severed, and as the crimson cascades from my mangled neck, I die.

* * *

**Maud Perrin- District Three**

I saw Leo in the shadows, moving about slowly and deliberately, trying to get close enough to the door to take out Allure. He's in no condition to jump into water, and I can tell by the hulky movements he makes that he's not quick, more of a brute.

Still, as he tackles the girl from One, I can't help but hope he kills her, chiding myself on the inside. I know killing has to be part of the grand design to get home, but for now, it's a last resort. But if someone else were to take out tributes for me, if I could get brawn behind this operation, then things could go much more smoothly.

But, the sound of the cannon awakens new senses in the remaining tributes on this cursed rooftop, and as soon as I know they're done with Ruci, the new target is zoned in on, Leo. The boy from Four sprints over to our location and I double back deeper into the darkness as far from the torches as possible. I can't see my hand in front of my face, but I can see far off, near the torch light that Allure and Leo are sparring in.

He tries to grab her throat, while they tussle on the ground, but Cassia reaches them before Rip does. I hadn't seen her the entire time, even when Nero had fell off the building, but she was apparently inside the cornucopia, checking for supplies or guarding the entrance or something. She meets Leo before Rip does, and raising the sword from her side, she buries the blade in Leo's back.

My district partner doesn't make a sound, but becomes deadweight on top of Allure and then the cannon goes off. It's a sickening sound, knowing someone I hoped for, someone I trusted is dead, but I can't worry about him now. Everyone is expendable, except for me that is.

There are only two other tributes left on the rooftop that aren't careers or myself, Aston and Maple. Maple's been in the dark for some time now, probably calculating her escape. The gamemakers have put us in a tough position, and now us three girls will have to concoct a plan to win our ways off this high-rise. I can see them in the darkness, and whisper something, quiet enough to not draw attention but loud enough to gain the girl's attention.

We convene in the black, but Maple doesn't say a word.

"We have to align for now, just until we get off this rooftop," I hiss, and the two girls nod.

"How though?" Aston murmurs, obviously perplexed.

"A diversion," I stammer, and Aston fills in, "I'm a good runner."

"Then while you make a distraction, Maple and I will escape, and then you jump off the roof," I decide and the three girls nod. It's a plan created in seconds, but it's all the time we have to get off the roof. Because right after I speak, a new set of torches light up, directly behind us.

"They're drawing us out," I nearly cry out, furious with the gamemakers. They've tired of this game of shadows and now want some carnage. Four tributes have already died, but I guess that's not enough. Aston bolts for the side of the building, screaming wildly and running amok, tearing off while Maple and I dart for the exit. We're so small that the careers don't notice us, and they all target Aston, believing her to be the last one up here.

Maple and I make it to the door, and I enter the stairwell before Maple does. Then, without warning, the door slams shut before Maple can get in, a trick by the gamemakers. I know why though, because if the careers get Aston, then that'll leave the only tribute that scored a twelve alone with the careers, something that everyone is dying to see.

I get the answer to my prediction when the cannon sounds and I can hear the earsplitting screech of Aston as her life slips away. Someone got to her, and as the sound of the cannon fades away, I can hear the whoops and hollers of the careers, ready to end the bloodbath with just one more kill.

* * *

**Revolc Undercity- District Seven**

The arrow that bitch from eight sent through my leg hurts like hell, but Ula removed it swiftly and sent the arrow over the edge, leaving me with a nice hole in my leg. We found some bandages inside the cornucopia and after rubbing my wound with some ointment, I feel miraculously better. Stepping out of the cornucopia, I witness the end of the girl from Six and the beginning of a new target, my district partner.

Avery and Allure have yet to kill, but Rip didn't waste any time catching that Aston girl in the back with a toss of his knife. She went sprawling, and he slit her throat from ear to ear right after. The maniac took her out faster than he did the boy from Ten, but it still wasn't pretty. But now, there's still another tribute left on this rooftop, and I look to where Cassia is headed, in the direction of Maple.

My district partner and I never liked each other, I deprived her of any help from a mentor, and since I joined the careers she hasn't said a word to me. But there's something about her, maybe it's the fact we're from the same district, or maybe since she scored a twelve, I don't know, but there's something that makes me hesitant to help in the end of her life.

But that's a luxury I'm denied, because Rip is soon at my side.

"Only one left," he snarls, "And I think that considering she's from your district, you should do the honors."

The comment shocks me, but I've got to stick with this crowd, "Sure man, just get me a weapon and I'll gut the little bitch."

He smiles, and hands me the knife he used on Aston. Her blood still stains the weapon, but I do nothing to show it disturbs me. Heading for where Cassia has my district partner pinned down, right outside the door she tried to escape from, I hold the weapon in my hand. I advance on the scene, trying to convince myself what I'm doing is for my own safety, so I can get home.

"She's feisty," Cassia says with a laugh, looking up at us. Maple squirms under her grip, eyes pleading with me to help her. There's nothing I can really do, my hands are tied. I can't throw away the alliance I've formed, not when it's gotten me so far already. I can either save this girl from my district, or run this game alongside the careers.

"Hold her down," I say to Cassia without looking at her, my eyes are trained on Maple, whose gaze lights up at my words. She's terrified; she didn't anticipate this kind of arena. The gamemakers were cruel enough to put us on a rooftop with one exit, and she couldn't find it in time. Now the door is locked and everyone else is either dead or gone, except for her. She squeals in fright as I come closer, brushing the edge of her face with the knife. I know I shouldn't be toying with her, but it's something I have to do to win the admiration of Rip and the others, to be a true member of this alliance.

Then, sliding the knife up against her cheek, I pierce Maple's flesh, drawing the softest of whimpers from her closed mouth. She refuses to given in, defies all motivation to scream and thrash about. She closes her eyes, a cold acceptance passing over her face. I'm about to end my district partner. I lean over Cassia's arm, it's in the way because she's pinning Maple down, and I proceed to make the same mark on Maple's face, just on the other cheek. I give her two matching wounds, one on each side, drawing the liquid blood from her face.

The torture is slow and agonizing, for the both us, but Rip wanted it to be this way.

"I wonder why she got that twelve?" Our leader wonders aloud, "**Is** it because she was very fast?" After his comment, he slams his foot down on her knee, the sickening crack of breaking bones shattering the silence. Maple screams, her resilience broken. The tears on her face begin to flow freely, and she sucks in large gulps of air as she struggles to retain her composure.

"Did that hurt?" I find myself asking, jeering at Maple with the same attitude as Rip. The boy looks at me with approval, obviously happy that I'm taunting my district partner. Then, taking the knife, I make an incision where Rip stomped on her knee, causing her to convulse wildly and make guttural sounds no human should ever perform.

"Please!" She begins to beg, "No, no! Please!" She is wailing with fear and pain, the two emotions blending together to form a catastrophic combination. The twelve-year old girl writhes like a snake in Cassia's grip, but the older girl says, "You're not going anywhere sweetie."

Avery watches from a distance, his purple irises fixated on Maple's paroxysms. He can't peel his eyes away, and I think I pick up hints of fear in them, is he doubting us?

"Get it together Avery," I spit, chiding the boy. He seems to snap out of a haze, and then mumbles, "Sorry."

I know something's up, he's lacking the same drive the rest of us do. I get up and with a smile on my face I hand the knife off to him.

"Why don't you give it a go? She's my kill but why don't you have some fun with her before I end it?" I prompt, looking at Maple before giving the knife to my ally. I can feel his clammy hand before he accepts the weapon, and the lump is visible in his throat. He's sweating bullets, and the boy can't bring himself to do it.

He kneels next to Maple, and drags the knife along her inner thigh, scratching the surface of her skin delicately and precisely. He's much more meticulous then I would have imagined, and as he slowly penetrates her mulatto skin with the blade, Maple begins to experience a new kind of pain. It's not sudden, like the wounds delivered my Rip and I, but the precise incisions and careful cuts Avery makes are horrifying sensations that I can only describe by the look on Maple's face.

Maple makes sobs and grunts, heaving her body up and down, trying to escape Cassia's Iron grasp. Maple is pinned to the ground, and under the strong grip of Cassia and Avery's maneuvers with the knife, her fate is sealed.

But there's someone we forgot about, someone who we thought had left the rooftop, because of the splash in the water down below. It must have been a diversion, some supplies that went into the water and not the actual body of a tribute, because emerging from the shadows armed with a slingshot is the girl from Eleven.

She rockets a pellet at Cassia, hitting the girl right in the temple. She shrieks with pain, but it'll only bruise and the sensation is fleeting. It's enough to distract my ally though, because she loosens her hold on Maple and my district partner slips out from under her grasp. I call out to Avery, ordering him to stop her, but his swing with the knife comes too late and Maple is already out of reach.

"Amber!" Maple calls, hobbling towards the edge of the building with a hand on her broken knee. She won't get anywhere fast with that sort of injury soon, so I break into a run after her. Rip and Ula turns towards Amber, tearing off to bring her down. There's no way these tribute can escape, and Allure holds her sword out in front, holding her position by the door to prevent their escape. Cassia follows me, after the girl that we were torturing with moments ago.

But Maple shows us why she scored a twelve, and quickly climbs to an ancillary part of the building, up the additional block that must've held a cooling system or something before this city turned to ruin. She's up there in seconds, even with her damaged leg. It sounded for sure like Rip broke it, but the feat she just accomplished would prove otherwise. Perched on top of the adjunct, Maple is out of reach for now, but Cassia can apparently climb to.

My ally begins to scale the adjunct Maple rests on, but the small girl gives her a foot to the face and sends her tumbling back down. Cassia is seething with rage and grapples for the girl's retreating foot, but to no avail. I hear sounds of frustration coming from where Rip and Ula are hunting Amber, and can see from my location that we've got not one but two climbers on our hands, because Amber is perched on top of the cornucopia.

"Come on down girls," Cassia says loudly, "You can't stay up there all night."

"There won't stay up there for another minute," Rip says hotly and pulls a knife from his side, he catches Maple in the shoulder, but it's not fatal. The throw happened in an instant, and realize instantaneously that it was a mistake. Maple whimpers as she wrenches the weapon from her shoulder, and the crimson stain it leaves behind is just another injury on her running tally. Even if she makes it out of this, she won't live long. Maple picks up the knife and changes hands, holding it high over her good shoulder.

Then she shows us why she earned a twelve.

The knife leaves her hand with deft precision, zooming towards me and lodging in my throat. A fountain of red gushes from the entry wound, cascading down my chest and through my clothes. Blood is everywhere, and I soon feel the weird sensation of my energy ebbing and my focus fading. In the confusion, Rip and Ula rush to my side and I can hear them curse loudly as Amber jumps off the rooftop and into the water below, the splashing sound for real this time. I have just enough strength left to look up, to where Maple was before she threw the knife.

She's gone, that damn girl, the one that got away.

I don't even have enough time to think about my family, Amy, my brothers and mother and everyone who was counting on me to pull through. Everything was so foolproof, I was with the careers, I would soar through this game.

But it doesn't happen like that, because in this infernal city, on top of this roof in the black of the night, the last of my strength fades into a misty blur and the darkness consumes me.

* * *

**Nero Lepidus- District Two**

Falling off the roof into the water had to be the scariest thing that's ever happened to me. One second, I was defending my alliance from Avery's sword and the next I was toppling over a roof headed straight for the ground. I had assumed pavement much like the roof of the building the bloodbath occurred waited for me at the bottom, and I didn't even have time to think before I made contact with the icy depths. Relief and fear flooded into me at once, because while I was thankful that I had survived the fall, the blood rising to the surface from the wound in my leg triggered the horrors of the games to resurface in my mind once again.

Breaking the surface of the water, I wasn't alone for very long. Not wanting to find out if any weird muttations lived in the water, I paddled to the stone walkway and hoisted myself up. In a few moments, Amerilia and Ember crashed into the water, leaving me to wonder where our fourth alliance member was. Soon enough though, Daedrya joined my other companions in the frigid blue and emerged to fall back beside me onto the pavement.

"That was crazy," I breathe loudly, exhausted from the bloodbath.

"We survived," she says, a smile curving her lips, "We survived."

Amerilia and Ember reach our side, both of them with the same labored breath Daedrya and I have. Amerilia looks annoyed,

"I didn't think I'd get wet so soon," she glumly says, wringing the water out of her hair.

"Did you get your hair wet?" I tease, cracking a smile.

"Shut up," she says with a flare, cutting her eyes at me. I know she's not mad, so I laugh it off.

"God Nero, that leg of yours looks bad," Ember comments, staring at the wound on my thigh.

I give my golden hair a shake and train eyes of the same color on her,

"I'll be fine," I say toughly, not wanting the injury Avery dealt me to get in the way of our progress. The careers got to work fast in the bloodbath, but a member of our alliance did as well.

"Was it easy," I ask Daedrya, who is currently supine on the walkway.

She knows what I'm talking about, but asks anyway, "Was what easy?"

"You shot the boy from Twelve with your arrows, you killed someone. Was it easy?" I reiterate.

She rises, leveling her eyes at all of us. Her gaze moves from us person by person and the she finally answers with a chilling voice not unlike the waters we just left.

"It was either them or me. We're going to have to take down all of the other tributes if we want to get out of there, and I was just making the job easier."

No one says anything after that, but finally Amerilia suggests we look for somewhere to camp out.

"We can probably find an abandoned building or hotel to stay in," I say, scanning the dark horizon to see tons of dilapidated buildings and waterlogged hotels. Waters flows freely, cascades of thunderous waterfalls pouring from high windows of ruined buildings. There are no lights, save for the torches by the walkway, but everything else is eerily silent. The city extends for miles, seemingly endless amidst the mirror-like black water that surrounds us.

"Let's get a move on," Daedrya says, a new edge to her voice. The reality of killing Icarus has set in for her, she didn't think about it until I asked her. She didn't have time to, right after that we were cornered by the careers and then we jumped several stories into water we didn't know the depth of. She's been through more than most of us so far, so I just leave her to herself.

"We're going to need something for that wound on your thigh," Ember voices her concern for my leg again. Out of all the members in our alliance, I feel the closest to her, because she was my original ally. I can tell she wants me to be fine, and I am for now. But in a few days how will my thigh be if I don't get treatment?

We walk forever, the buildings much farther than they originally appeared. We steal off into the night, walking together as a team, the alliance we set out to be. Six cannons sounded today, a fourth of the tributes are gone, and none of them were us. Our alliance holds strong, and it will until every last career is dead.

Even my sister.

* * *

**I rewrote this chapter so many times it's not even funny. I didn't know how to end it, and I knew it was going to be with Nero's perspective but I just didn't know where to take it. I'm going to apologize now for anyone's tribute that died, so let's run through the kill list. One fourth of the tributes are gone, and I'm glad it's that way, because it's called a bloodbath for a reason. I knew I had to have a shocking death as well, but I think some of you could tell some tributes were marked for the bloodbath from the capitol chapters. **

**Leo Ventras (District Three)- Killed by Cassia Lepidus**

**Aston Jeffries (District Six)- Killed by ?- Will be revealed next chapter**

**Revolc Undercity (District Seven)- Killed by Maple Starr**

**Roger Shimhill (District Ten)- Killed by Rip Crevan**

**Ruci Nonabi (District Ten)- Killed by Ula Ermin**

**Icarus Cotton (District Twelve)- Killed by Daedrya Redwyne **

** On another note, the Sponsor Shop is open! I only had one person PM the tribute they wanted to sponsor, and I'll be sending their balance out soon. Reviews have been slow, but I'm hoping that since this is the bloodbath I'll get more than usual. I really love seeing the support guys, and you just don't know how it makes writers feel to see a review pop up. It makes my day every time. Once again, apologies if someone's tribute died, but it had to happen. Thanks for all the support, and the games have begun!**

**-AdmiralBobbery**


End file.
